F3 


FACT  AND   FICTION. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  18-16, 
BY  0.  S.  FRANCIS  ft  CO. 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of 
New-York. 


Printed  by 

MUNROK  4  FRANCIS, 
BOSTON. 


TO 

ANNA    LORING, 

THE      CHILD     OF     MY      HEART, 

ftfjfg    Volume 

Is      AFFECTIONATELY      INSCRIBED. 
«•  * 


1* 


CONTENTS. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  MOUNT  IDA, 9 

THE  YOUTHFUL  EMIGRANT,           40 

THE  QUADROONS, 61 

THE  IRISH  HEART, .  77 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  APOSTLE  JOHN,           91 

THE  BELOVED  TUNE, 116 

ELIZABETH  WILSON,    .                       126 

THE  NEIOHBOUR-IN-LAW,      .       :       . 149 

SHE  WAITS  IN  THE  SPIRIT-LAND,            163 

A  POET'S  DREAM  OF  THE  SOUL, 177 

THE  BLACK  SAXONS,           199 

HILDA  SILFVERLINO,       . ,  205 

ROSENGLORY, .  241 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  FALLS  OF  ,ST.  ANTHONY,       ....  261 

THE  BROTHERS,           .               275 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  MOUNT  IDA. 


"Spirit,  who  waftest  me  where'er  I  will, 

And  seest;  with  finer  eyes,  what  infants  see,, 

Feeling  all  lovely  truth, 

With  the  wise  health  of  everlasting  youth, 

Beyond  the  motes  of  bigotry's  sick  eye, 

Or  the  blind  feel  of  false  philosophy — 

O  Spirit,  O  Muse  of  mine, 

Frank,  and  quick-dimpled  to  all  social  glee, 

And  yet  most  sylvan  of  the  earnest  Nine — 

O  take  me  now,  and  let  me  stand 

On  some  such  lovely  land, 

Where  I  may  feel  me  as  I  please, 

In  dells  among  the  trees." 

IN  very  ancient  times  there  dwelt,  among  the  Phry 
gian  hills,  an  old  shepherd  and  shepherdess,  named 
Mygdomus  and  Arisba.  From  youth  they  had  tended 
flocks  and  herds  on  the  Idean  mountains.  Their  only 
child,  a  blooming  boy  of  six  years,  had  been  killed  by 
falling  from  a  precipice.  Arisba's  heart  overflowed 
with  maternal  instinct,  which  she  yearned  inexpressi 
bly  to  lavish  on  some  object ;  but  though  they  laid 
many  offerings  on  the  altars  of  the  gods,  with  fervent 
supplications,  there  came  to  them  no  other  child. 

Thus  years  passed  in  loneliness,  until  one  day, 
when  Mygdomus  searched  for  his  scattered  flock 
among  the  hills,  he  found  a  babe  sleeping  under  the 
shadow  of  a  plane  tree.  The  grass  bore  no  marks  of 
footsteps,  and  how  long  he  had  lain  there  it  was  im- 


10  THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA. 

possible  to  conjecture.  The  shepherd  shouted  aloud, 
but  heard  only  echoes  in  the  solitude  of  the  mountains. 
He  took  the  child  tenderly  in  his  arms,  and  conveyed 
it  to  Arisba,  who  received  it  gladly,  as  an  answer  to 
her  prayers.  They  nurtured  him  with  goat's  milk, 
and  brought  him  up  among  the  breezes  of  the  hills, 
and  the  boy  grew  in  strength  and  beauty.  Arisba 
cherished  him  with  exceeding  love,  but  still  her  heart 
was  not  quite  satisfied. 

"  If  he  had  but  a  sister  to  play  with  him,"  said  she, 
"  it  would  be  so  pleasant  here  under  the  trees." 

The  boy  was  three  years  old,  and  beautiful  as  a 
morning  in  spring,  when  his  foster-parents  carried  him 
down  to  the  plains,  to  a  great  festival  of  Bacchus,  held 
during  the  vintage.  It  was  a  scene  of  riot  and  con 
fusion  ;  but  the  shepherd  loved  thus  to  vary  the  lone 
liness  of  his  mountain  life,  and  Arisba  fondly  desired 
to  show  her  handsome  boy,  with  his  profusion  of  dark 
glossy  curls  bound  in  a  fillet  of  ivy  and  grape  leaves. 
Her  pride  was  abundantly  satisfied ;  for  everywhere 
among  the  crowd  the  child  attracted  attention.  When 
the  story  was  told  of  his  being  found  in  the  mountain 
forest,  the  women  said  he  must  have  been  bom  of 
Apollo  and  Aurora,  for  only  they  could  produce  such 
beauty.  This  gossip  reached  the  ears  of  an  old  wo 
man,  who  came  hobbling  on  her  crutch,  to  look  at  the 
infant  prodigy. 

"  By  the  Adorable!  he  is  a  handsome  boy,"  said 
she ;  "  but  come  with  me,  and  I  too  will  show  you 
something  for  the  Mother  of  Love  to  smile  upon." 

She  led  the  way  to  her  daughter,  who,  seated  under  a 
tree,  apart  from  the  multitude,  tended  a  sleeping  babe. 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA.  11 

"  By  the  honey  sweet !  isn't  she  pretty,  too  ?"  ex 
claimed  the  old  woman,  pointing  to  the  lovely  infant, 
whose  rosy  lips  were  slowly  moving,  as  if  she  suckled 
in  her  dreams.  "  My  son,  who  hunts  among  the  hills, 
found  her  on  the  banks  of  the  Cebrenus,  with  one 
little  foot  dipped  in  the  stream.  Methinks  the  good 
Mountain  Mother  scatters  children  on  our  Phrygian 
hills,  as  abundant  as  the  hyacinths." 

"  Then  she  is  not  your  own  ?"  eagerly  inquired 
Arisba. 

"  No;  and,  pretty  as  she  is,  1  do  not  want  her,  for 
I  have  ten.  But  what  can  I  do  ?  One  must  not  leave 
babes  to  be  devoured  by  wild  beasts." 

"  Oh,  give  her  to  me,"  cried  Arisba  :  "  My  boy  so 
needs  a  playmate." 

The  transfer  was  readily  made  ;  and  the  child-lov 
ing  matron,  rejoicing  in  her  new  treasure,  soon  after 
left  the  revellers,  and  slowly  wended  her  way  back  to 
the  silent  hills. 

A  cradle  of  bark  and  lichen,  suspended  between  two 
young  olive  trees,  held  the  babe,  while  Arisba,  seated 
on  a  rock,  sung  as  she  plied  the  distaff.  The  boy  at 
her  side  built  small  altars  of  stones,  or  lay  at  full  length 
on  the  grass,  listening  to  the  gurgling  brook,  or  watch 
ing  the  shadows  at  their  play.  Thus  peacefully  grew 
these  little  ones,  amid  all  harmonies  of  sight  and 
sound ;  and  the  undisturbed  beauty  of  nature,  like  a 
pervading  soul,  fashioned  their  outward  growth  into 
fair  proportions  and  a  gliding  grace. 

For  a  long  time  they  had  no  names.  They  were 
like  unrecorded  wild  flowers,  known  at  sight,  on 
which  the  heart  heaps  all  sweet  epithets.  Their  fos- 


12  THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA. 

ter-parents  spoke  of  them  to  strangers  as  the  Forest- 
found,  and  the  River-child.  A  lovelier  picture  could 
not  be  imagined,  than  these  fair  children,  wreathing 
their  favourite  kid  with  garlands,  under  the  shadow 
of  the  trees,  or  splashing  about,  like  infant  Naiades, 
in  the  mountain  brook.  On  the  hill  side,  near  their 
rustic  home,  was  a  goat's  head  and  horns,  bleached  by 
sjun  and  winds.  It  had  been  placed  on  a  pole  to  scare 
the  crows ;  and  as  it  stood  there  many  a  year,  the 
myrtle  had  grown  round  it,  and  the  clematis  wreathed 
it  with  flowery  festoons,  like  the  architectural  orna 
ments  of  a  temple.  A  thrush  had  built  her  nest  be 
tween  the  horns ;  and  a  little  rill  gushed  from  the 
rock,  in  a  cleft  of  which  the  pole  was  fastened.  Here 
the  boy  loved  to  scoop  up  water  for  his  little  playmate 
to  drink  from  his  hand  ;  and  as  they  stood  thus  under 
the  vines,  they  seemed  like  children  of  the  gods.  But 
the  most  beautiful  sight  was  to  see  them  kneeling  hand 
in  hand  before  the  altar  of  Cybele,  in  the  grove,  with 
wreaths  about  their  heads  and  garlands  in  their  hands, 
while  the  setting  sun  sprinkled  gold  among  the  shadow- 
foliage  on  the  pure  white  marble.  Always  they  were 
together.  When  the  boy  was  strong  enough  to  bend 
a  bow,  the  girl  ran  ever  by  his  side  to  carry  his  ar 
rows;  and  then  she  had  a  smaller  arrow  for  herself, 
with  which  she  would  shoot  the  flowers  from  their 
stems,  as  skilfully  as  Cupid  himself. 

As  they  grew  older,  they  came  under  the  law  of 
utility;  but  this  likewise  received  a  poetic  charm  from 
their  free  and  simple  mode  of  life.  While  the  lad 
tended  the  flocks,  the  maiden  sat  on  a  rock  at  his  feet, 
spinning  busily  while  she  sang  summer  melodies  to 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA.  13 

the  warblings  of  his  flute.  Sometimes,  when  each 
tended  flocks  on  separate  hills,  they  relieved  the  weary 
hours  by  love  messages  sent  through  the  air  on  the 
wings  of  music.  His  Phrygian  flute  questioned  her 
with  bold  bright  voice,  and  sweetly  answered  her 
Lydian  pipe,  in  mellow  tones,  taking  their  rest  in 
plaintive  cadences.  Sometimes  they  jested  sportively 
with  each  other ;  asking  mischievous  questions  in 
fragments  of  musical  phrases,  the  language  of  which 
could  be  interpreted  only  by  themselves.  But  more 
frequently  they  spoke  to  each  other  deeper  things  than 
either  of  them  comprehended ;  struggling  aspirations 
towards  the  infinite,  rising  and  lowering  like  tongues 
of  flame  ;  half  uttered,  impassioned  prophecies  of  emo 
tions  not  yet  born ;  and  the  wailing  voice  of  sorrows 
as  yet  unknown. 

In  the  maiden  especially  was  the  vague  but  intense 
expression  of  music  observable.  In  fact,  her  whole 
being  was  vivacious  and  impressible  in  the  extreme ; 
and  so  transparent  were  her  senses,  that  the  separa 
tion  between  earthly  and  spiritual  existence  seemed  to 
be  of  the  thinnest  and  clearest  crystal.  All  noises 
were  louder  to  her  than  to  others,  and  images  invisi 
ble  to  them  were  often  painted  before  her  on  the  air, 
with  a  most  perfect  distinctness  of  outline  and  brilli 
ancy  of  colouring.  This  kind  of  spirit-life  was  indi 
cated  in  her  face  and  form.  Her  exquisitely  beautiful 
countenance  was  remarkably  lucid,  and  her  deep  blue 
eyes,  shaded  with  very  long  dark  fringes,  had  an  in 
tense  expression,  as  if  some  spirit  from  the  inner  shrine 
looked  through  them.  Her  voice  was  wonderfully  full 
of  melodious  inflexions,  but  even  in  its  happiest  utter- 
2 


14  THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA. 

ance  had  a  constant  tendency  to  slide  into  sad  modu 
lations.  The  outline  of  her  slight  figure  swayed 
gracefully  to  every  motion,  like  a  young  birch  tree  to 
the  breath  of  gentle  winds  ;  and  its  undulations  might 
easily  suggest  the  idea  of  beauty  born  of  the  waves. 

Her  companion  had  the  perfection  of  physical  beau 
ty.  A  figure  slender  but  vigorous  ;  a  free,  proud  car 
riage  of  the  head,  glowing  complexion ;  sparkling 
eyes,  voluptuous  mouth,  and  a  pervading  expression 
of  self-satisfaction  and  joy  in  his  own  existence.  A 
nature  thus  strong  and  ardent,  of  course  exercised  a 
powerful  influence  over  her  higher  but  more  ethereal 
and  susceptible  life.  Then,  too,  the  constant  commu 
nion  of  glances  and  sounds,  and  the  subtle  influence 
of  atmosphere  and  scenery,  had  so  intertwined  their 
souls,  that  emotions  in  the  stronger  were  felt  by  the 
weaker,  in  vibrations  audible  as  a  voice.  Near  or  dis 
tant,  the  maiden  felt  whether  her  companion's  mood 
were  gay  or  sad ;  and  she  divined  his  thoughts  with  a 
clearness  that  sometimes  made  him  more  than  half 
afraid. 

Of  course  they  loved  each  other  long  before  they 
knew  what  love  was ;  and  with  them  innocence  had 
no  need  of  virtue.  Placed  in  outward  circumstances 
so  harmonious  with  nature,  they  were  drawn  toward 
each  other  by  an  attraction  as  pure  and  unconscious 
as  the  flowers.  They  had  no  secrets  from  their  good 
foster-mother ;  and  she,  being  reverent  towards  the 
gods,  told  them  that  their  union  must  be  preceded  by 
offerings  to  Juno,  and  solemnized  by  mutual  promises. 
She  made  a  marriage  feast  for  them,  in  her  humble 
way,  and  crowned  the  door-posts  with  garlands.  Life 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA.  15 

passed  blissfully  there,  in  the  bosom  of  the  deeply 
wooded  hills.  Two  souls  that  are  sufficient  to  each 
other ;  sentiments,  affections,  passions,  thoughts,  all 
blending  in  love's  harmony,  are  earth's  most  perfect 
medium  of  heaven.  Through  them  the  angels  come 
and  go  continually,  on  missions  of  love  to  all  the  low 
er  forms  of  creation.  It  is  the  halo  of  these  heavenly 
visitors  that  veils  the  earth  in  such  a  golden  glory, 
and  makes  every  little  flower  smile  its  blessing  upon 
lovers.  And  these  innocent  ones  were  in  such  har 
mony  with  nature  in  her  peaceful  spring  time  !  The 
young  kids,  browsing  on  the  almond  blossoms,  stopped 
and  listened  to  their  flutes,  and  came  ever  nearer,  till 
they  looked  in  the  eyes  of  the  wedded  ones.  And 
when  the  sweet  sounds  died  away  into  silence,  the 
birds  took  up  the  strain  and  sang  their  salutation  to 
the  marriage  principle  of  the  universe. 

Thus  months  passed  on,  and  neither  heart  felt  an 
unsatisfied  want.  They  were  known  to  each  other 
by  many  endearing  names,  but  the  foster-parents  usu 
ally  called  them  Corythus  and  CEnone.  These  names 
were  everywhere  cut  into  the  rocks,  and  carved  upon 
the  trees.  Sometimes,  the  child-like  girl  Avould  ask, 
nothing  doubting  of  the  answer,  "  Will  you  love  me 
thus  when  I  am  as  old  as  our  good  Arisba  ?"  And  he 
would  twine  flowers  in  the  rich  braids  of  her  golden 
hair,  as  he  fondly  answered,  "  May  the  Scamander 
flow  back  to  its  source,  if  ever  I  cease  to  love  my 
CEnone."  That  there  were  other  passions  in  the 
world  than  love,  they  neither  of  them  dreamed.  But 
one  day  Corythus  went  down  into  the  plains  in  search 
of  a  milk-white  bull,  that  had  strayed  from  the  herd. 


16  THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA. 

He  was  returning  with  the  animal,  when  he  encoun 
tered  a  troop  of  hunters,  from  the  city  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river.  The  tramp  of  their  horses  and  the 
glitter  of  their  spears  frightened  the  bull,  and  he 
plunged  madly  into  the  waves  of  the  Scamander. 
The  uncommon  beauty  of  the  powerful  beast,  and  his 
fiery  strength,  attracted  attention.  Some  of  the  hun 
ters  dismounted  to  assist  in  bringing  him  out  of  the 
river,  and  with  many  praises,  inquired  to  whom  he 
belonged.  The  shepherd  answered  their  questions 
with  a  graceful  diffidence,  that  drew  some  admiration 
upon  himself.  As  the  troop  rode  away,  he  heard  one 
of  them  say,  "  By  Apollo's  quiver  !  that  magnificent 
bull  must  be  the  one  in  which  Jupiter  disguised  him 
self  to  carry  ofFEuropa." 

"  Yes,"  replied  another,   "  and  that  handsome  rus 
tic  might  be  Ganymede  in  disguise." 

A  glow  of  pleasure  mantled  the  cheeks  of  Corythus. 
He  stood  for  a  moment  proudly  caressing  the  neck 
and  head  of  the  superb  animal,  and  gazed  earnestly 
after  the  hunters.  The  adventure  made  a  strong  im 
pression  on  his  mind  ;  for  by  the  brazen  helmets  and 
shields,  richly  embossed  with  silver,  he  rightly  con 
jectured  that  they  who  had  spoken  thus  of  him  were 
princes  of  Ilium.  From  that  day  he  dressed  himself 
more  carefully,  and  often  looked  at  the  reflection  of 
himself  in  the  mountain  pool.  Instead  of  hastening 
to  CEnone,  when  they  had  by  any  chance  been  sepa 
rated  for  a  few  hours,  he  often  lingered  long,  to  gaze 
at  the  distant  towers  of  Ilium,  glittering  in  the  setting 
sun.  The  scene  was  indeed  surpassingly  fair.  The 
Scamander  flowed  silverly  through  a  verdant  valley 


TILE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA.  17 

girdled  by  an  amphitheatre  of  richly  wooded  moun 
tains.  Europe  and  Asia  smiled  at  each  other  across 
the  bright  waters  of  the  j33gean,  while  the  lovely  isl 
ands  of  Imbros  and  Tenedos  slept  at  their  feet.  But 
it  was  not  the  beauty  of  the  scene  which  chiefly  at 
tracted  his  youthful  imagination.  The  spark  of  am 
bition  had  fallen  into  his  breast,  and  his  shepherd 
life  now  seemed  unmanly  and  dull.  GBnone  soon 
felt  this ;  for  the  usually  quick  perception  of  love 
was  rendered  still  more  keen  by  her  peculiar  impress 
ibility  to  spiritual  influence.  For  the  first  time,  in 
her  innocent  and  happy  life,  came  conscious  sadness 
without  a  defined  reason,  and  unsatisfied  feelings  that 
took  no  name.  She  gave  out  the  whole  of  her  soul, 
and  not  being  all  received,  the  backward  stroke  of  un- 
absorbed  affection  struck  on  her  heart  with  mournful 
echoes.  It  made  her  uneasy,  she  knew  not  why,  to 
hear  Corythus  talk  of  the  princes  of  Ilium,  with  their 
dazzling  crests  and  richly  embroidered  girdles.  It 
seemed  as  if  these  princes,  somehow  or  other,  came 
between  her  and  her  love.  She  had  always  been 
remarkable  for  the  dreaming  power,  and  in  her  pre 
sent  state  of  mind  this  mysterious  gift  increased. 
Her  senses,  too,  became  more  acute.  A  nerve  seemed 
to  be  thrust  out  at  every  pore.  She  started  at  the 
slightest  sound,  and  often,  when  others  saw  nothing, 
she  would  exclaim — 

"  Look  at  that  beautiful  bird,  with  feathers  like  the 
rainbow  I" 

The  kind  foster-mother  laid  all  these  things  to  her 
heart.     Something  of  reverence,  tinged  with   fear 
2* 


18  THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA. 

mixed  with  her  love  for  this  dear  child  of  her  adop 
tion.     She  said  to  her  husband  — 

"  Perhaps  she  is  the  daughter  of  Apollo,  and  he 
will  endow  her  with  the  gift  of  prophecy,  as  they  say 
he  has  the  beautiful  princess  Cassandra,  in  the  royal 
halls  of  Ilium." 

The  attention  of  Corythus  was  quite  otherwise  em 
ployed.  All  his  leisure  moments  were  spent  in  ma 
king  clubs  and  arrows.  He  often  went  down  into 
the  plains,  to  join  the  young  men  in  wrestling 
matches,  running,  leaping,  throwing  of  quoits.  In 
all  games  of  agility  or  strength,  he  soon  proved  his 
superiority  so  decidedly  that  they  ceased  to  excite 
him.  Then  he  joined  hunting  parties,  and  in  contests 
with  wild  beasts  he  signalized  himself  by  such  extra 
ordinary  boldness  and  skill,  that  in  all  the  country 
round  he  came  to  be  known  by  the  name  of  Alexan 
der,  or  the  Defender. 

The  echo  of  his  fame  flattered  the  pride  of  his 
foster-father,  who  often  predicted  for  him  a  career  of 
greatness ;  but  poor  (Enone  wept  at  these  periods  of 
absence,  which  became  more  and  more  frequent. 
She  Concealed  her  tears  from  him,  however,  and 
eagerly  seized  every  little  moment  of  sunshine  to 
renew  their  old  happiness.  But  of  all  the  sad  tasks 
of  poor  humanity,  it  is  the  most  sorrowful  to  welcome 
ghosts  of  those  living  joys  that  once  embraced  us  with 
the  warmest  welcome.  To  an  earnest  and  passionate 
nature  it  seems  almost  better  to  be  hated,  than  to  be 
less  beloved.  CEnone  would  not  believe  that  the 
sympathy  between  them  was  less  perfect  than  it  had 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA.  19 

been  ;  but  the  anxious  inquiry  and  the  struggling  hope 
were  gradually  weakening  her  delicate  frame  ;  and  an 
event  occurred  which  completely  deranged  her  nervous 
organization.  One  day  they  had  both  been  tending 
flocks  on  the  hills,  and  had  fallen  asleep  in  the  shade 
of  a  gigantic  oak.  When  they  awoke,  the  flock  had 
wandered  away,  and  they  went  in  search  of  them. 
Twilight  drew  her  cloud-curtain  earlier  than  usual, 
and  only  a  solitary  star  was  here  and  there  visible. 
Bewildered  by  the  uncertain  light,  they  lost  their  way, 
and  were  obliged  to  trust  to  the  sagacity  of  their  dog. 
The  sky,  through  the  thickly  interlacing  boughs  of 
gigantic  trees,  looked  down  upon  them  solemnly ; 
bushes  here  and  there  started  forth,  like  spectral  sha 
dows,  across  their  path ;  and  their  faithful  dog  now 
and  then  uttered  a  long  howl,  as  if  he  felt  the  vicinity 
of-  some  evil  beast.  CEnone  was  overcome  with  ex 
ceeding  fear.  The  wind  among  the  trees  distressed 
her  with  its  wailing  song ;  and  her  acute  senses  de 
tected  other  sounds  in  the  distance,  long  before  they 
reached  the  ear  of  her  companion. 

"  Ha !  what  is  that  ?"  she  exclaimed,  clinging  more 
closely  to  his  arm. 

"  Tis  only  the  evening  wind,"  he  replied. 

"  Don't  you  hear  it  I"  she  said  :  "  It  is  a  horrible 
noise,  like  the  roar  of  lions.  Ah,  dear  Corythus,  the 
wild  beasts  will  devour  us." 

He  stood  and  listened  intently. 

"  I  hear  nothing,"  said  he,  "  but  the  Dryads 
whispering  among  the  trees,  and  pulling  green  gar 
lands  from  the  boughs.  Your  ears  deceive  you, 
dearest." 


20  THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA. 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments ;  and  then, 
with  a  faint  shriek,  she  exclaimed  : 

"  Oh,  did'nt  you  hear  that  frightful  clash  ?  The 
dog  heard  it.  Hark  !  how  he  growls." 

For  some  time,  Corythus  insisted  that  there  were  no 
other  sounds  than  those  common  to  evening.  But  at 
last  a  deep  roar,  mingled  with  howls,  came  through 
the  air  too  distinctly  to  be  mistaken.  (Enone  trem 
bled  in  every  joint,  and  the  perspiration  stood  in  large 
drops  on  her  lips  and  forehead.  The  sounds  grew 
louder  and  louder.  Booming  timbrels  were  answered 
with  the  sharp  clash  of  cymbals,  and  at  every  pause 
of  the  rolling  drums  the  Phrygian  pipe  moaned  on  the 
winds.  The  roars,  shrieks  and  howls  of  a  furious 
multitude  rent  the  air  with  fierce  discords,  and  the 
earth  shook  as  with  the  tramp  of  an  army.  As  they 
passed  by,  the  glare  of  their  torches  came  up  from 
below,  and  cast  fantastic  gleams  on  the  dark  foliage 
of  the  firs. 

"  The  gods  be  praised,"  said  Corythus,  "  these  are 
no  wild  beasts ;  but  the  Corybantes  on  their  way  to 
the  temple  of  Cybele.  The  sounds  are  awful  indeed  ; 
but  the  Mountain  Mother  has  been  kind  to  us,  dear 
(Enone ;  for  by  the  route  they  have  taken  I  see  that 
the  good  dog  has  guided  us  right,  and  we  are  not  far 
from  our  home." 

He  received  no  answer  and  could  hear  no  breathing. 
He  felt  the  arm  that  clutched  him  so  convulsively, 
and  found  it  cold  and  rigid.  Fitful  flashes  of  lurid 
light  gleamed  ever  and  anon  in  the  distance  ;  the  hills 
echoed  the  roar  of  Cybele's  lions,  and  the  passionate 
clang  of  cymbals  pierced  into  the  ear  of  night.  There 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT   IDA.  21 

was  no  hope  of  making  his  voice  heard  through  the 
uproar ;  so  he  tenderly  lifted  his  fair  burthen  and  bore 
it  vigorously  down  the  steep  hill,  pausing  now  and 
then  to  take  breath.  At  last,  his  eyes  were  greeted 
by  the  welcome  sight  of  Mygdomus  with  a  torch, 
anxiously  looking  out  for  them.  (Enone's  terror,  and 
its  consequences,  were  briefly  explained,  and  quickly 
as  possible  they  carried  her  into  the  dwelling. 

The  swoon  continued  so  long,  that  it  seemed  like 
death  ;  but  at  last  she  opened  her  eyes,  gazed  around 
with  an  unconscious  stare,  and  soon  fell  into  a  deep 
sleep.  The  next  morning  she  appeared  exceedingly 
weak,  and  there  was  a  strange  expression  about  her 
eyes.  She  so  earnestly  besought  Corythus  not  to 
leave  her,  that  the  old  shepherd  and  his  wife  proposed 
to  go  forth  with  the  flocks ;  and  it  was  agreed  to  call 
them,  in  case  of  need,  by  a  shrill  summons  on  the 
pipe.  But  CEnone,  though  much  exhausted,  and  ner 
vously  sensitive  to  light  and  sound,  slept  most  of  the 
time  quietly.  Corythus  had  in  his  hand  a  branch  of 
laurel ;  and  to  amuse  her  waking  moments,  he  wove 
a  garland  of  the  leaves  and  playfully  wreathed  it 
round  her  head.  Her  eyes  lighted  up  with  a  singular 
inward  radiance,  and  she  exclaimed  joyfully,  "  I  like 
that.  It  makes  me  feel  strong." 

Corythus  gazed  anxiously  into  her  eyes,  and  a 
superstitious  fear  crossed  his  mind  that  she  had  in 
some  way  offended  the  dread  goddess  Cybele,  and 
been  punished  with  insanity.  But  she  smiled  so 
sweetly  on  him,  and  spoke  so  coherently,  that  he 
soon  dismissed  the  fear.  An  insect  buzzed  about  her 


22  THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA. 

head,  and  he  moved  his  hand  slowly  up  and  down, 
to  keep  it  away.     When  he  paused,  she  said  : 
'Do  that  again.     It  is  soothing  and  pleasant." 

He  continued  the  motion,  and  with  a  delighted 
smile,  she  said : 

"  Ah,  the  laurel  bough  has  golden  edges,  and  there 
are  rays  about  your  head,  like  a  shining  crown." 

The  smile  was  still  on  her  lips,  when  she  sunk  into 
a  profound  slumber.  But  when  he  rose  and  attempt 
ed  to  go  out,  she  said,  imploringly  : 

"  Oh,  don't  leave  me  !" 

Yet  she  still  seemed  in  the  deepest  possible  sleep. 

"  CEnone,  do  you  see  me  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  see  you  on  a  hill  where  there  is  a  marble 
temple.  There  are  three  very  beautiful  women,  and 
they  all  beckon  to  you." 

"  What  do  they  ask  of  me  ?"  said  he. 

"  They  ask  of  you  to  say  which  is  the  fairest.  One 
offers  you  a  king's  crown  if  you  decide  for  her ;  an 
other  holds  forth  a  glittering  spear,  and  says  she  will 
make  you  the  most  renowned  warrior  in  the  world ; 
the  other  offers  a  myrtle  wreath,  and  says,  '  Decide  in 
my  favour,  and  you  shall  marry  the  most  beautiful 
princess  in  the  world.'  " 

"  I  choose  the  myrtle,"  said  Corythus  ;  "  but  this 
is  an  odd  dream." 

"  It  is  not  a  dream,"  replied  OZnone. 

"  Are  you  not  asleep,  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  asleep ;  the  motion  of  your  hands  put 
me  to  sleep,  and  if  you  move  that  hazel  twig  over  my 
face,  it  will  wake  me." 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA.  23 

*  He  waved  the  twig,  and  her  eyes  opened  imme 
diately  ;  but  when  questioned,  she  said  she  had  seen 
no  marble  temple,  and  no  beautiful  women. 

This  incident  made  an  indelible  impression  on  the 
mind  of  Corythus.  He  merely  told  the  foster-parents 
that  she  had  talked  in  her  sleep,  and  had  at  times 
looked  very  strangely.  But,  within  himself,  he  pon 
dered  much  upon  what  she  had  said  concerning  the 
beautiful  princess.  Some  days  after,  when  he  and 
CEnone  were  out  on  the  hill-side,  he  told  her  what  she 
had  said  of  the  motion  of  his  hands,  and  the  effect  of 
the  hazel  twig  ;  but  an  undefined  feeling  led  him  to 
forbear  mentioning  her  prophecy  that  he  would  marry 
the  most  beautiful  princess  in  the  world. 

She  answered,  playfully : 

"  Move  your  hands  over  my  head  again,  and  see  if 
I  shall  fall  asleep." 

He  did  so,  and  in  a  few  minutes,  she  said  : 

"  Ah,  all  the  leaves  on  the  trees  now  wear  a  golden 
edge,  the  flowers  radiate  light,  there  is  a  shining 
crown  around  your  head,  and  from  your  fingers  dart 
lines  of  fire.  Dear  Corythus,  this  is  like  what  the 
minstrel  sung  of  the  Argonauts,  when  they  were  be 
nighted,  and  Apollo's  bow  cast  bright  gleams  along 
the  shore,  and  sparkled  on  the  waves." 

She  continued  to  talk  of  the  beautiful  appearance 
more  and  more  drowsily,  and  in  a  few  minutes  sunk 
into  slumber.  Corythus  watched  the  statue-like  still 
ness  of  her  features,  and  the  singularly  impressive 
beauty  of  their  expression.  It  was  unlike  anything 
he  had  ever  seen.  A  glorious  light  beamed  from  the 
countenance,  but  it  shone  through,  not  on  it ;  like  a 


24  THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA. 

rose-coloured  lamp  within  a  vase  of  alabaster.  For  a 
few  moments,  he  was  too  much  awed  to  interrupt  the 
silence.  There  was  something  divine  in  her  love 
liness,  as  she  lay  there  peacefully  under  the  whisper 
ing  foliage,  while  the  breezes  gently  raised  her  golden 
ringlets.  But  curiosity  was  too  powerful  to  be  long 
subdued  by  reverence  ;  and  Cory  thus  at  last  asked : 

"  CEnone,  where  is  the  beautiful  princess  whom  I 
shall  marry  ?" 

After  a  pause,  she  replied  : 

"In  a  fair  city  girdled  by  verdant  hills,  far  south 
from  here,  toward  the  setting  sun." 

"  Do  you  see  her  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes.  She  is  in  a  magnificent  palace,  the  walls 
of  which  are  ivory  inlaid  with  golden  vines,  and 
grapes  of  amber.  Beneath  her  feet  is  spread  a  rich 
green  cloth,  embroidered  with  flowers.  A  handmaid 
is  kneeling  before  her,  with  a  shining  silver  vase, 
twined  round  with  golden  serpents,  and  heaped  with 
fine  purple  wool.  Another  sits  at  her  feet,  with  the 
infant  princess  in  her  arms." 

"  She  is  married,  then  ?" 

"  She  is  the  famous  Helena,  of  whose  many  lovers 
the  minstrels  sing,  and  who  was  married  to  Mene- 
laus,  king  of  Laconia." 

"  How  does  she  look  ?*' 

"Majestic  as  Juno,  and  beautiful  as  Venus.  She 
has  large  dark  glowing  eyes,  a  proud  but  very  beauti 
ful  mouth,  and  neck  and  shoulders  as  white  as  ivory. 
Her  glossy  brown  hair  is  bound  round  the  forehead 
with  a  golden  fillet,  and  falls  in  waves  almost  to  her 
feet.  She  is  very  beautiful,  and  very  vain  of  her  beauty. " 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT   IDA.  25 

"  How  then  is  it  that  she  will  consent  to  marry  me, 
a  poor  shepherd  ?" 

"  You  are  the  son  of  a  king ;  and  when  she  sees 
you,  she  will  think  you  the  most  beautiful  of  men." 

"  I  the  son  of  a  king !  Dearest  CEnone,  tell  me  of 
what  king  ?" 

"  Of  Priam,  king  of  Troy." 

"  How  then  came  I  on  Mount  Ida  ?" 

"  The  night  you  were  born,  your  mother  dreamed 
of  a  torch  that  set  all  Ilium  on  fire.  The  dream 
troubled  her,  and  she  told  it  to  the  king,  her  husband. 
He  summoned  the  soothsayers,  and  they  told  him 
that  the  babe  which  was  born  would  cause  the  destruc 
tion  of  the  city.  While  your  mother  slept,  the  king 
gave  you  to  his  favourite  slave,  Archelaus,  with 
orders  to  strangle  you.  But  he  had  not  the  heart  to 
do  it,  and  so  he  left  you  under  a  plane  tree  on  Mount 
Ida,  and  prayed  the  gods  to  send  some  one  to  save 
you." 

"  Shall  I  be  happy  with  the  beautiful  princess  ?" 

"  You  shall  have  joy,  but  much,  much  more*  sor 
row.  She  will  bring  destruction  on  you;  and  you 
will  come  to  CEnone  to  die." 

Being  further  questioned,  she  said  she  knew  the 
healing  virtues  of  all  herbs,  and  the  antidotes  for  all 
poisons. 

Corythus  walked  slowly  back  and  forth,  with  folded 
arms,  revolving  all  that  had  been  uttered.  Could 
it  be  that  those  handsome  princes  of  Ilium  were  his 
brothers?  And  the  lovely  Helena,  the  renown  of 
whose  beauty  had  even  reached  the  ears  of  shepherds 
on  these  distant  hills,  could  she  ever  be  his  wife  ? 
3 


26  THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA. 

He  paused  and  gazed  on  CEnone,  and  compared  in 
his  mind  her  innocent  spiritual  beauty  with  the  volup 
tuous  picture  she  had  given  of  Helena ;  and  there 
arose  within  him  a  vague  longing  for  the  unknown 
one. 

"Wake  me!  wake  me!"  exclaimed  the  sleeper: 
"  there  is  a  strange  pain  in  my  heart." 

Mar  veiling  much,  and  blushing  at  his  own  thoughts, 
he  hastily  woke  her.  He  felt  an  unwillingness  to 
reveal  what  she  had  uttered ;  and  she  was  satisfied 
when  told  that  she  had  talked  incoherently  of  the 
splendours  of  a  palace.  From  that  day  he  often  tried 
the  experiment,  and  was  never  satisfied  with  hearing 
of  her  visions. 

It  was  a  sad  task  of  this  fair  prophetess,  thus  un 
consciously  to  paint  the  image  of  a  rival  in  the  heart 
of  him  she  loved.  And  though  there  remained  in  the 
waking  state  no  remembrance  of  the  revelations  made, 
yet  the  effect  of  them  gave  a  more  plaintive  tone  to 
her  whole  existence.  The  angelic  depth  of  expression 
increased  in  her  beautiful  eyes,  and  evermore  looked 
out  through  a  transparent  veil  of  melancholy  ;  for  she 
felt  the  estrangement  of  her  beloved  Corythus,  though 
she  knew  it  not.  In  fact,  his  wayward  behaviour  at 
tracted  the  attention  of  even  good  old  Arisba.  Moody 
and  silent,  or  irritable  and  impetuous,  he  no  longer 
seemed  like  the  loving  and  happy  youth,  whom  she 
had  doated  on  from  his  infancy.  Sometimes  he  would 
hurl  the  heaviest  stones,  with  might  and  main,  down 
the  sides  of  the  mountain,  or  wrench  the  smaller  trees 
up  by  the  roots.  He  was  consumed  by  a  feverish 
restlessness,  that  could  find  no  sufficient  outward  ex- 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA.  27 

pression  ;  a  fiery  energy  that  knew  not  how  to  expend 
itself.  Into  the  smallest  occasions  of  play  or  labour  he 
threw  such  vehemence  and  volcanic  force,  that  Arisba 
jestingly  said,  "  We  will  call  you  no  more  Corythus, 
but  Cceculus,  who  is  said  to  have  been  born  of  a  spark 
from  Vulcan's  forge." 

To  CEnone,  his  conduct  was  wayward  in  the  ex 
treme.  Sometimes  he  seemed  to  forget  that  she  was 
in  existence  ;  and  then,  as  if  reproaching  himself,  he 
treated  her  with  a  lavishness  of  love  that  laid  her 
weeping  on  his  bosom.  Then  she  would  look  up, 
smiling  through  her  tears,  and  say,  "  You  do  love  me, 
still  ?  I  know  not  what  to  make  of  you,  dear  Cory 
thus.  Your  love  seems  like  the  Scamander,  that  has 
two  sources,  one  warm  and  the  other  cold.  But  you 
do  love  me ;  do  you  not  ?  " 

The  allusion  to  two  sources  brought  a  faint  flush 
to  his  cheek ;  and  when  he  kissed  her,  and  said  "  I  do," 
her  listening  spirit  heard  a  broken  echo  in  the  answer. 

Thus  was  life  passing  with  them,  when  a  messen 
ger  from  king  Priam  came  to  obtain  the  white  bull, 
which  had  been  so  much  admired  by  the  hunters. 
There  was  to  be  a  gladiatorial  contest  in  Ilium,  and 
the  king  had  promised  to  the  victor  the  most  beautiful 
bull  that  could  be  found  on  Mount  Ida.  Corythus 
proudly  replied  that  he  would  not  give  up  the  noble 
animal,  unless  he  were  allowed  to  enter  the  lists  for 
the  prize.  Mygdomus,  fearing  the  royal  displeasure, 
remonstrated  with  him,  and  reminded  him  that  the 
contest  was  for  princes  and  great  men,  and  not  for 
shepherds  and  rustics.  But  Corythus  persisted  that 
on  such  terms  only  would  he  send  away  the  pride  of 


28  THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA. 

their  herds.  The  courier  departed,  and  returned  next 
day  with  a  message  from  the  king,  saying  he  liked 
the  bold  spirit  of  the  youth,  and  would  gladly  admit 
into  the  lists  one  so  famous  for  courage  and  skill. 

Poor  CEnone  could  not  overcome  her  reluctance  to 
have  him  go.  There  had  always  been  in  her  mind 
an  uncomfortable  feeling  with  regard  to  those  princes 
of  Ilium ;  and  now  it  returned  with  redoubled  force. 
But,  alas,  in  those  mysterious  sleeps  she  prophesied 
victory  and  glory,  and  thus  kindled  higher  than  ever 
the  flame  of  ambition  within  his  breast. 

At  last  the  important  day  arrived  ;  and  with  throb 
bing  hearts  the  shepherd-family  saw  their  young 
gladiator  depart  for  the  contest.  He  drew  CEnone  to 
his  heart  and  kissed  her  affectionately;  but  when  they 
parted,  he  did  not  stop  to  look  back,  as  he  used  to  do 
in  those  blissful  days  when  their  souls  were  fused  into 
one.  With  vigorous,  joyful  leaps,  he  went  bounding 
down  the  sides  of  the  mountain.  CEnone  watched  his 
graceful  figure  as  he  swung  lightly  from  the  trunk  of 
a  young  olive  tree,  down  into  the  plain  below.  When 
she  could  no  longer  see  even  a  moving  speck  in  the 
distance,  she  retired  tearfully,  to  tend  the  flocks  alone. 
All  that  day  her  eyes  were  fixed  sadly  on  the  towers 
of  Ilium,  and  the  thought  ever  present  was,  "  He  did 
not  look  back  upon  me,  when  we  parted." 

He  promised  to  return  on  the  third  day ;  but  the 
fourth,  and  the  fifth,  and  the  sixth  passed,  and  still  he 
came  not.  Mournfully,  mournfully,  wailed  CEnone's 
pipe,  and  there  came  no  answer  now,  but  sad  echoes 
from  the  hills. 

"  What  can  have  become  of  him  ? "  said  Arisba, 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT   IDA.  29 

when  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day  closed.  "  Surely, 
if  harm  had  happened  to  him,  they  would  send  a 
messenger." 

"  He  is  either  dead,  or  he  has  tasted  the  waters  of 
Argyra,  which  make  people  forget  those  they  love," 
said  CEnone  ;  and  as  she  spoke,  hot  tears  fell  on  the 
thread  she  spun. 

*?v  •%£  *nr  "Jt*  */?•  «n-  -7^  "7?- 

How  had  it  fared  meanwhile  with  Corythus  ? 
Victor  in  all  the  games,  his  beauty  and  his  strength 
called  forth  shouts  of  applause.  One  after  another 
of  the  king's  sons  were  obliged  to  yield  to  his  supe 
rior  vigour  and  skill.  At  last  came  the  athletic  and 
hitherto  unconquered  Hector.  After  a  fierce  protract 
ed  struggle,  the  shepherd  of  Ida  overthrew  him  also. 
Enraged  at  being  conquered  by  a  youth  of  such  infe 
rior  birth,  he  started  on  his  feet  and  rushed  after  him, 
in  a  paroxysm  of  wrath.  Corythus,  to  elude  his  fury, 
passed  through  a  gate  which  led  into  the  inner  court 
of  the  palace.  It  chanced  that  queen  Hecuba  and  her 
daughter  Cassandra  were  there,  when  he  rushed  in, 
and  panting  threw  himself  upon  the  altar  of  Jupiter 
for  protection.  Hecuba  flung  her  mantle  over  him, 
and  summoned  a  slave  to  bring  him  water.  Cassan 
dra,  gazing  earnestly  at  the  youthful  stranger,  ex 
claimed, 

"  How  like  he  is  to  my  mother,  as  I  first  remember 
her!" 

The  queen  inquired  his  age,  and  Cassandra,  listen 
ing  to  his  answer,  said, 

"  If  my  brother  Paris  had  lived,  such  also  would 
have  been  his  years." 

"  Fair  Princess,"  replied  Corythus,  "  an  oracle  has 
3 


30  THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA. 

told  me  that  I  am  he.  Is  Archelaus  yet  alive  ?  If  so, 
I  pray  you  let  him  be  summoned,  and  inquire  of  him 
whether  he  destroyed  the  infant  Paris." 

The  old  slave,  being  questioned,  fell  on  his  knees 
and  confessed  that  he  had  left  the  babe  under  a  plane 
tree,  on  Mount  Ida,  and  that  he  had  afterward  seen 
him  in  the  hut  of  Mygdomus.  With  a  cry  of  joy, 
Hecuba  threw  herself  into  the  arms  of  her  beautiful, 
her  long-lost  son.  Slaves  brought  water  for  his  feet 
and  spread  rich  carpets  before  him.  They  clothed 
him  in  royal  robes,  and  there  was  feasting  and  rejoic 
ing,  and  magnificent  processions  to  the  temples,  and 
costly  sacrifices  to  the  gods.  Brothers  and  sisters 
caressed  him,  and  he  was  attended  by  beautiful  bond 
women,  whose  duty  it  was  to  obey  his  every  wish. 
Electra,  a  handsome  Greek  girl,  with  glowing  cheeks 
and  eyes  of  fire,  brought  water  for  his  hands  in  vases 
of  silver ;  while  Artaynta,  a  graceful  Persian,  with 
kiss-inviting  lips,  and  sleepy  oriental  eyes,  always  half- 
veiled  by  their  long  silken  fringes,  knelt  to  pour  per 
fumes  on  his  feet.  Thus  surrounded  by  love  and 
splendour,  the  dazzled  youth  forgot  GEnone.  It  was 
not  until  the  fourth  day  of  his  residence  in  the  palace, 
that  the  new  prince  began  to  think  how  anxious  must 
be  the  humble  hearts  that  loved  him  on  Mount  Ida. 
Should  he  raise  CEnone  to  his  own  royal  rank  ?  She 
was  unquestionably  lovely  enough  to  grace  a  throne  ; 
but  the  famous  Spartan  queen  had  taken  possession 
of  his  imagination,  and  he  was  already  devising  some 
excuse  to  visit  the  court  of  Menelaus.  He  had  not 
courage  to  reveal  these  feelings  to  CEnone ;  and  a 
selfish  wish  to  screen  himself  from  embarrassment  and 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA.  31 

pain  induced  him  to  send  Archelaus  to  convey  the  news, 
with  munificent  presents  to  his  foster-parents  and  his 
wife,  and  a  promise  that  he  would  come  hereafter. 

When  CEnone  heard  the  unexpected  tidings,  she 
fell  into  a  swoon  more  deadly  than  the  one  she  had 
experienced  on  the  night  of  Cybele's  procession.  She 
knew  that  her  feelings  could  not  have  changed  toward 
Corythus,  had  the  Fates  offered  her  the  throne  of  the 
world ;  but  she  felt  that  it  might  be  otherwise  with 
him.  Weary  weeks  passed,  and  still  he  came  not 
CEnone,  wakeful  and  nervous,  at  last  asked  the  foster- 
mother  to  try  to  soothe  her  into  sleep,  as  Corythus 
had  formerly  done.  Under  this  influence  all  the  ob 
jects  around  her  again  radiated  light ;  and  when  the 
mysterious  slumber  veiled  her  senses,  she  entered  the 
royal  palace  of  Priam,  and  saw  her  beloved.  Some 
times  she  described  him  as  reclining  on  a  crimson 
couch,  while  Electra  brought  him  wine  in  golden 
goblets.  At  other  times,  Artaynta  knelt  before  him 
and  played  on  her  harp,  while  he  twined  the  long 
ringlets  of  her  glossy  hair.  At  last  she  said  he  was 
fitting  out  a  fleet,  and  would  soon  sail  away. 

When  Arisba  asked  where  he  would  go,  she  an 
swered  : 

"  He  says  he  is  going  to  Salamis  to  redeem  the 
Princess  Hesione,  who  was  carried  away  prisoner  by 
the  Greeks ;  but  his  real  object  is  to  visit  the  beautiful 
queen  of  Sparta,  whom  I  told  him  he  would  marry." 

"  Poor  child,"  thought  Arisba,  "  then  it  was  thou 
thyself  that  kindled  strange  fires  in  his  bosom.  What 
wrong  hast  thou  done,  in  thy  innocent  life,  that  the 
gods  should  thus  punish  thee  ?" 


32  THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA. 

In  her  waking  hours,  CEnone  asked  eager  questions 
concerning  all  she  had  said  in  her  state  of  inner  con 
sciousness. 

"  Oh,  if  I  could  only  see  him  again !"  she  would 
exclaim  with  mournful  impatience.  "To  have  these 
painted  visions,  and  to  retain  no  memory  of  them — 
this  is  worse  than  the  doom  of  Tantalus.  Oh,  how 
could  he  forget  me  so  easily  ?  We  who  have  slept  in 
the  same  cradle,  and  so  often  folded  each  other  in 
mutual  love.  I  could  not  thus  have  forgotten  him."" 

She  invented  many  projects  of  going  to  Ilium  in 
disguise,  that  she  might  at  least  look  upon  him  once 
more.  But  timidity  and  pride  restrained  her. 

"  The  haughty  ones  will  scorn  a  poor  shepherd 
girl,"  she  said  ;  "  and  he  will  be  ashamed  to  call  me 
his  wife.  I  will  not  follow  him  who  wishes  to  leave 
me.  It  would  break  my  heart  to  see  him  caressing 
another's  beauty.  Yet  if  I  could  only  see  him,  even 
with  another  folded  to  his  heart !  Oh,  ye  gods,  if  I 
could  only  see  him  again  !  " 

Arisba  listened  to  these  ravings  with  deep  com 
passion. 

"  Poor  child,"  she  would  say,  "  when  thou  wert 
born,  the  Loves  sneezed  to  thee  from  the  unlucky  side." 

OEnone  would  fain  have  been  in  her  mysterious 
sleep  half  the  time  ;  so  eager  was  she  to  receive  tid 
ings  from  Corythus.  But  Arisba  had  not  the  leisure 
to  spare,  nor  did  she  think  such  constant  excitement 
favourable  to  the  health  of  her  darling  child.  Already 
her  thin  form  was  much  attenuated,  and  her  com 
plexion  had  the  pale  transparency  of  a  spirit.  But 
the  restlessness,  induced  by  hearing  no  news  of  her 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA.  33 

beloved,  had  a  worse  effect  upon  her  nerves  than  the 
excitement  caused  by  her  visions.  So  day  by  day, 
Arisba  tried  to  soothe  her  wretchedness,  by  producing 
the  sleep,  and  afterward  repeating  to  her  what  she 
had  said.  In  this  strange  way,  all  that  occurred  at 
the  palace  in  Ilium  was  known  in  the  hut  on  Mount 
Ida.  The  departure  of  the  young  prince  for  Salamis, 
the  gorgeous  fleet,  with  gay  streamers  and  gilded 
prows,  the  crowd  about  the  shores  waving  garlands, 
were  all  described  in  the  liveliest  manner.  But 
CEnone's  sadness  was  not  deepened  by  this  event. 
Corythus  had  been  previously  separated  from  her, 
more  completely  than  if  he  had  already  passed  into  the 
world  of  spirits.  One  only  hope  consoled  her  misery; 
her  own  prophecy  that  he  would  come  to  her  to  die. 
Arisba  was  rejoiced  to  discover  that  her  darling 
would  soon  become  a  mother.  She  trusted  this  would 
resuscitate  withering  affections,  by  creating  a  visible 
link  between  her  desolate  heart  and  the  being  she  so 
fondly  loved.  And  the  first  glance  of  the  young  mo 
ther  upon  her  innocent  babe  did  seem  to  renew  the 
fountains  of  her  life.  She  named  the  boy  Corythus, 
and  eagerly  watched  his  growing  beauty,  to  catch 
some  likeness  of  his  father.  But  the  child  had  been 
born  under  influences  too  sad  to  inherit  his  father's 
vigorous  frame,  or  his  bounding,  joyous,  volatile  spirit. 
His  nature  was  deep  and  loving,  like  his  mother's, 
and  he  had  her  plaintive,  prophetic  eyes.  But  his 
rosy  mouth,  the  very  bow  of  Cupid,  was  the  image 
of  his  father's.  And  oh,  with  what  a  passionate  mix 
ture  of  maternal  fondness  and  early  romantic  love,  did 
poor  (Enone  press  it  to  her  own  pale  lips ! 


34  THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT   IDA. 

Less  frequently  now  she  sought  the  relief  of  super 
natural  sleep ;  and  when  she  did,  it  was  not  always 
followed  by  visions.  But  at  various  times  she  saw 
her  beloved  in  Sparta,  weaving  garlands  for  the  beau 
tiful  queen,  or  playing  upon  his  flute  while  he  reclined 
at  her  feet. 

"She  loves  him  not,"  said  the  sleeper;  "but  his 
beauty  and  his  flattery  please  her,  and  she  will  return 
with  him.  It  will  prove  a  fatal  day  for  him,  and  for 
Ilium." 

When  little  Corythus  was  a  year  old,  the  fleet  re 
turned  from  Greece,  bearing  Paris  and  his  beautiful 
Spartan  queen.  CEnone  was,  of  course,  aware  of 
this  event,  long  before  the  rumour  was  reported  to  Myg- 
domus  by  neighbouring  shepherds.  A  feverish  excite 
ment  returned  upon  her  ;  the  old  intense  desire  to  see 
the  loved  one.  But  still  she  was  restrained  by  fear 
and  womanly  pride.  She  made  unseen  visits  to  the 
palace,  as  before,  and  told  of  Paris  forever  at  the  feet 
of  his  queenly  bride,  playing  upon  his  silver  lyref 
while  she  decorated  his  curling  tresses  with  garlands. 

Again  and  again,  the  question  rose  in  CEnone's 
mind,  whether  the  forgetful  one  would  love  her  fair 
child,  if  he  could  see  him  ;  and  month  by  month,  the 
wish  grew  stronger  to  show  him  this  son  of  their  love. 
Little  Corythus  was  about  two  years  old,  when  she 
foretold  immediate  war  with  the  Grecian  states,  en 
raged  at  the  abduction  of  queen  Helena.  When  this 
was  repeated  to  her,  she  said  to  herself, 

"  If  I  go  not  soon,  the  plain  will  be  filled  with  war 
riors,  and  it  will  be  dangerous  to  venture  there." 

She  kept   her  purpose  secret;  but   one  morning, 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA.  35 

when  she  and  the  little  one  were  out  alone  upon  the 
hills,  she  disguised  herself  in  some  of  Arisba's  old 
robes,  and  went  forth  to  Ilium,  hoping  to  gain  entrance 
to  the  palace  under  the  pretence  of  having  herbs  to 
sell.  But  when  she  came  within  sight  of  the  stately 
edifice,  her  resolution  almost  failed.  A  slave,  who 
was  harnessing  two  superb  white  horses  to  a  glittering 
chariot,  demanded  what  she  wanted;  and  when  she 
timidly  told  her  errand,  he  showed  her  an  inner  quad 
rangular  court,  and  pointed  out  the  apartments  of  the 
women.  As  she  stood  hesitating,  gazing  on  the  mag 
nificent  marble  columns  and  gilded  lattices,  Paris 
himself  came  down  the  steps,  encircling  Helen  with 
his  arm.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  looked  upon 
him  since  he  left  her,  in  rustic  garb,  without  pausing 
to  look  back  upon  her.  Now,  he  wore  sparkling  san 
dals,  and  a  mantle  of  Tyrian  purple,  with  large  clasps 
of  gold.  His  bride  was  clothed  in  embroidered  Sido- 
nian  garments,  of  the  richest  fashion,  and  a  long 
flowing  veil,  of  shining  texture,  was  fastened  about 
her  head  by  a  broad  band  of  embossed  gold.  Poor 
(En one  slunk  away,  abashed  and  confounded  in  the 
presence  of  their  regal  beauty ;  and  her  Keart  sank 
within  her,  when  she  saw  those  well-remembered  eyes 
gazing  so  fondly  upon  her  splendid  rival.  But  when 
the  slave  brought  the  chariot  to  the  gate,  she  tried  to 
rouse  her  courage  and  come  forward  with  the  child. 
Paris  carefully  lifted  his  bride  into  the  chariot,  and 
leaped  in,  to  seat  himself  by  her  side.  In  the  agony 
of  her  feelings,  the  suffering  mother  made  a  convul 
sive  movement,  and  with  a  shrill  hysteric  shriek,  ex 
claimed, 


36  THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA. 

"  Oh  Corythus,  do  look  once  upon  our  child !" 

The  frightened  horses  reared  and  plunged.  The 
chariot,  turning  rapidly,  struck  CEnone  and  she  fell. 
The  wheels  merely  grazed  her  garments,  but  passed 
over  the  body  of  the  child.  Paris  being  occupied  with 
soothing  Helen's  alarm,  was  not  aware  of  this  dread 
ful  accident.  The  slave  reined  in  the  startled  horses 
with  a  strong  hand,  and  drove  rapidly  forward.  CEnone 
was  left  alone  outside  the  gates,  with  the  lifeless  body 
of  her  babe. 

It  was  evening  when  she  returned  weary  and  heart 
broken  to  Arisba.  A  compassionate  rustic  accompa 
nied  her,  bearing  her  melancholy  burden.  The  sad 
story  was  told  in  a  few  wild  words  ;  and  the  old  shep 
herds  bowed  down  their  heads  and  sobbed  in  agony. 
GBnone's  grief  was  the  more  fearful,  because  it  was  so 
still.  It  seemed  as  if  the  fountains  of  feeling  were 
dried  up  within  her  heart. 

There  was  a  painfully  intense  glare  about  her  eyes, 
and  she  remained  wakeful  late  into  the  night.  At 
last,  the  good  foster-mother  composed  her  into  an  arti 
ficial  sleep.  She  talked  less  than  usual  in  such  slum 
bers,  and  evinced  an  unwillingness  to  be  disturbed. 
But,  in  answer  to  Arisba's  question,  she  said, 

"  He  did  not  know  a  child  was  killed,  nor  did  he 
see  us.  In  the  confusion  he  thought  only  of  Helen, 
and  did  not  recognise  CEnone's  voice.  His  sister  Cas 
sandra,  who  sees  hidden  things  by  the  same  light  that 
I  do,  has  told  him  that  the  child  killed  at  the  gates  was 
his  own.  But  Helen  and  her  handmaids  are  dancing 
round  him,  laughing  and  throwing  perfumes  as  they 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA.  37 

go,  and  he  thinks  not  of  us.  He  would  have  loved 
our  little  Cory  thus,  if  he  had  known  him." 

"  Thank  the  gods  for  that,"  said  Arisba  within  her 
self  ;  "  for  I  would  not  like  to  hate  the  nursling  I  rear 
ed  so  fondly." 

They  buried  the  child  in  the  shade  of  a  gigantic 
oak,  on  which,  in  happier  days,  had  been  carved,  with 
the  point  of  an  arrow,  the  united- names  of  Corythus 
and  CEnone.  A  beautiful  Arum  lily  held  its  large 
white  cup  over  the  grave  ;  and  the  sorrowing  mother 
covered  the  broken  soil  with  anemonies  and  the  deli 
cate  blossoms  of  the  crocus.  There  she  would  sit 
hours  together,  gazing  on  the  towers  of  Ilium.  But 
her  desire  to  visit  the  palace,  visibly  or  invisibly,  seem 
ed  to  have  subsided  entirely.  No  feeling  of  resent 
ment  against  Corythus  came  into  her  gentle  heart; 
but  her  patient  love  seemed  to  have  sunk  into  utter 
hopelessness.  Sometimes,  indeed,  she  would  look  up 
in  Arisba's  face,  with  a  heart-touching  expression  in 
her  deep  mournful  eyes,  and  say,  in  tones  of  the  sad 
dest  resignation, 

"  He  will  come  to  me  to  die." 

Thus  years  passed  on.  War  raged  in  all  its  fury 
in  the  plains  below.  Their  flocks  and  herds  were  all 
seized  by  the  rapacious  soldiery,  and  the  rushing  of 
many  chariots  echoed  like  thunder  among  the  hills. 
The  nervous  wakefulness  of  CEnone  was  still  occa 
sionally  soothed  by  supernatural  sleep ;  though  she 
never  sought  it  now  from  curiosity.  At  such  times, 
she  often  gave  graphic  accounts  of  the  two  contending 
armies ;  but  these  violent  scenes  pained  her  in  her 
sleep,  and  left  her  waking  strength  extremely  exhaust- 
4 


38  THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA. 

ed.  Sometimes  she  described  Paris  in  the  battle-field, 
in  shining  armour,  over  which  a  panther's  skin  was 
gracefully  thrown,  with  a  quiver  of  arrows  at  his 
shoulder,  and  a  glittering  spear  balanced  in  his  hand, 
brave  and  beautiful  as  the  god  of  day.  But  more  fre 
quently  she  saw  him  at  Helen's  feet,  playing  on  harp 
or  flute,  while  she  wove  her  gay  embroidery.  In  the 
latter  time,  she  often  spoke  of  his  handsome  brother 
Deiphobus,  standing  near  them,  exchanging  stolen 
amorous  glances  with  the  vain  and  treacherous  Spar 
tan. 

"  She  is  false  to  him,"  murmured  the  sleeper,  mourn 
fully.  "  But  he  vrill  come  to  CEnone  to  die." 

At  last,  the  predicted  hour  arrived.  The  towers  of 
Ilium  were  all  in  flames,  and  the  whole  atmosphere 
was  filled  with  lurid  light,  as  the  magnificent  city  sank 
into  her  fiery  grave.  The  wretched  inhabitants  were 
flying  in  all  directions,  pursued  by  the  avenging  foe. 
In  the  confusion,  Paris  was  wounded  by  a  poisoned 
arrow.  In  this  hour  of  agony,  he  remembered  the 
faithful,  the  long-forgotten  one,  and  what  she  had  said 
of  her  skill  in  medicine.  In  gasping  tones,  he  cried 
out, 

"  Carry  me  to  (Enone  !" 

His  terrified  slaves  lifted  him  on  a  litter  of  boughs, 
and  hastened  to  obey  his  orders. 

CEnone  sat  by  the  grave  of  her  child,  watching  the 
blazing  towers  of  Ilium,  when  they  laid  Corythus  at 
her  feet.  She  sprang  forward,  exclaiming, 

"  Dear,  dear  Corythus,  you  have  come  to  me  at 
last !" 

Bending  over  him,  she  kissed  the  lips,  which,  cold 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    MOUNT    IDA. 


39 


mt. 

as  marble,  returned  no  answer  to  the  fond  caress.  She 
gazed  wildly  on  the  pale  countenance  for  an  instant — 
placed  her  trembling  hand  upon  his  heart — and  then 
springing  upward  convulsively,  as  if  shot  by  an  arrow, 
she  uttered  one  long  shrill  shriek,  that  startled  all  the 
echoes,  and  fell  lifeless  on  the  body  of  him  she  loved 
so  well. 

The  weeping  foster-parents  dug  a  wide  grave  by 
the  side  of  little  Corythus,  and  placed  them  in  each 
other's  arms,  under  the  shadow  of  the  great  oak,  whose 
Dryad  had  so  often  heard  the  pure  whisperings  of 
their  early  love. 


THE  YOUTHFUL  EMIGRANT. 

A  True  Story  of  the  Early  Settlement  of  New  Jersey. 


A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath; 

A  traveller  betwixt  life  and  death ; 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 

Endurance,  foresight,  strength  and  skill. 

A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 

To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 

And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 

With  something  of  an  angel  light. — WORDSWORTH. 

THE  latter  part  of  the  seventeenth  century  saw  rapid 
accessions  to  the  Society  of  Friends,  called  Quakers. 
The  strong  humility,  the  indwelling  life,  which  then 
characterised  that  peculiar  sect,  attracted  large  num 
bers,  even  of  the  wealthy,  to  its  unworldly  doctrines. 
Among  these  were  John  Haddon  and  his  wife  Eliza 
beth,  well-educated  and  genteel  people,  in  the  city  of 
London.  Like  William  Penn,  and  other  proselytes 
from  the  higher  classes,  they  encountered  much  ridi 
cule  and  opposition  from  relatives,  and  the  grossest 
misrepresentations  from  the  public.  But  this,  as 
usual,  only  made  the  unpopular  faith  more  dear  to 
those  who  had  embraced  it  for  conscience'  sake. 

The  three  daughters  of  John  Haddon  received  the 
best  education  then  bestowed  on  gentlewomen,  with 
the  exception  of  ornamental  accomplishments.  The 
spinnet  and  mandolin,  on  which  their  mother  had 


THE  YOUTHFUL  EMIGRANT.  41 

played  with  considerable  skill,  were  of  course  banish 
ed  ;  and  her  gay  embroidery  was  burned,  lest  it  should 
tempt  others  to  a  like  expenditure  of  time.  The  house 
was  amply  furnished,  but  with  the  simplest  patterns 
and  the  plainest  colours.  An  atmosphere  of  kindness 
pervaded  the  whole  establishment,  from  father  and 
mother  down  to  the  little  errand-boy ;  a  spirit  of  per 
fect  gentleness,  unbroken  by  any  freaks  of  temper,  or 
outbursts  of  glee ;  as  mild  and  placid  as  perpetual 
moonlight. 

The  children,  in  their  daily  habits,  reflected  an  im 
age  of  home,  as  children  always  do.  They  were 
quiet,  demure,  and  orderly,  with  a  touch  of  quaintness 
in  dress  and  behaviour.  Their  playthings  were  so  well 
preserved,  that  they  might  pass  in  good  condition  to 
the  third  generation;  no  dogs'  ears  were  turned  in 
their  books,  and  the  moment  they  came  from  school, 
they  carefully  covered  their  little  plain  bonnets  from 
dust  and  flies.  To  these  subduing  influences,  was 
added  the  early  consciousness  of  being  pointed  at  as 
peculiar ;  of  having  a  cross  to  bear,  a  sacred  cause  to 
sustain. 

Elizabeth,  the  oldest  daughter,  was  by  nature  strong, 
earnest,  and  energetic,  with  warm  affections,  uncom 
mon  powers  of  intellect,  and  a  lively  imagination. 
The  exact  equal  pressure  on  all  sides,  in  strict  Quaker 
families,  is  apt  to  produce  too  much  uniformity  of 
character  ;  as  the  equal  pressure  of  the  air  makes  one 
globule  of  shot  just  like  another.  But  in  this  rich 
young  soul,  the  full  stream,  which  under  other  circum 
stances  might  have  overleaped  safe  barriers,  being 
gently  hemmed  in  by  high  banks,  quietly  made  for  it- 
4* 


42 


THE    YOUTHFUL    EMIGRANT. 


self  a  deeper  and  wider  channel,  and  flowed  on  in  all 
its  fulness.  Her  countenance  in  some  measure  indi 
cated  this.  Her  large  clear  blue  eye  "  looked  out  hon 
est  and  friendly  into  the  world,"  and  there  was  an 
earnest  seriousness  about  her  mouth,  very  unusual  in 
childhood.  She  was  not  handsome ;  but  there  was 
something  extremely  pleasing  in  her  fresh  healthy 
complexion,  her  bright  intelligent  expression,  and  her 
firm  elastic  motions. 

She  early  attracted  attention,  as  a  very  peculiar  child. 
In  her  usual  proceedings,  her  remarks,  and  even  in  her 
play,  there  was  a  certain  individuality.  It  was  evident 
that  she  never  intended  to  do  anything  strange.  She 
was  original  merely  because  she  unconsciously  acted 
out  her  own  noble  nature,  in  her  own  free  and  quiet 
way.  It  was  a  spontaneous  impulse  with  her  to  relieve 
all  manner  of  distress.  One  day,  she  brought  home 
a  little  half-blind  kitten  in  her  bosom,  which  her  gen 
tle  eloquence  rescued  from  cruel  boys,  who  had  cut 
off  a  portion  of  its  ears.  At  another  time,  she  asked 
to  have  a  large  cake  baked  for  her,  because  she  want 
ed  to  invite  some  little  girls.  All  her  small  funds 
were  expended  for  oranges  and  candy  on  this  occasion. 
When  the  time  arrived,  her  father  arid  mother  were 
much  surprised  to  see  her  lead  in  six  little  ragged  beg 
gars.  They  were,  however,  too  sincerely  humble  and 
religious  to  express  any  surprise.  They  treated  the 
forlorn  little  ones  very  tenderly,  and  freely  granted 
their  daughter's  request  to  give  them  some  of  her 
books  and  playthings  at  parting.  When  they  had 
gone,  the  good  mother  quietly  said,  "Elizabeth,  why 
didst  thou  invite  strangers,  instead  of  thy  schoolmates  ?" 


THE  YOUTHFUL  EMIGRANT.  43 

There  was  a  heavenly  expression  in  her  eye,  as  she 
looked  up  earnestly,  and  answered,  "  Mother,  I  wanted 
to  invite  them,  they  looked  so  poor." 

The  judicious  parents  made  no  circumstance  of  it, 
lest  it  should  create  a  diseased  love  of  being  praised 
for  kindness.  But  they  gave  each  other  an  expressive 
glance,  and  their  eyes  filled  with  tears  ;  for  this  sim 
ple  and  natural  action  of  their  child  seemed  to  them 
full  of  Christian  beauty. 

Under  such  an  education,  all  good  principles  and 
genial  impulses  grew  freely  and  took  vigorous  root ; 
but  the  only  opening  for  her  active  imagination  to 
spread  its  wings,  was  in  the  marvellous  accounts  she 
heard  of  America  and  the  Indians.  When  she  was 
five  or  six  years  old, William  Penn  visited  her  father's 
house,  and  described  some  of  his  adventures  in  the 
wilderness,  and  his  interviews  with  red  men.  The  in 
telligent  child  eagerly  devoured  every  word,  and  kept 
drawing  nearer  and  nearer,  till  she  laid  her  head  upon 
his  knees,  and  gazed  into  his  face.  Amused  by  her 
intense  curiosity,  the  good  man  took  her  in  his  lap, 
and  told  her  how  the  squaws  made  baskets  and  em 
broidered  moccasons  ;  how  they  called  a  baby  a  pap- 
poos,  and  put  him  in  a  birch-bark  cradle,  which  they 
swung  on  the  boughs  of  trees.  The  little  girl's  eyes 
sparkled,  as  she  inquired,  "  And  didst  thou  ever  see  a 
pappoos-baby  thyself?  And  hast  thou  got  a  mocca- 
son-shoe  ?" 

"  I  have  seen  them  myself,  and  I  will  send  thee  a 
moccason,"  he  replied ;  "  but  thou  mayst  go  to  thy 
mother  now,  for  I  have  other  things  to  speak  of." 

That   night,   the  usually  sedate   child    scampered 


44  THE  YOUTHFUL  EMIGRANT. 

across  the  bed-room  with  but  one  sleeve  of  her  night 
gown  on,  and  tossed  up  her  shoe,  shouting,  " Ho,  ho! 
Friend  Penn  is  going  to  send  me  an  Indian  moccason  ! 
Mother,  art  thou  glad  ?  Hannah,  art  thou  glad  ?" 

This  unwonted  ebullition  was  not  rebuked  in  words, 
but  it  soon  subsided  under  the  invisible  influence  of 
unvarying  calmness. 

From  that  time,  a  new  character  was  given  to  all 
her  plays.  Her  doll  was  named  Pocahoritas,  and  she 
swung  her  kitten  in  a  bit  of  leather,  and  called  it  a 
pappoos.  If  she  could  find  a  green  bough,  she  stuck 
it  in  the  ground  for  a  tree,  placed  an  earthen  image 
under  it  for  William  Penn,  and  sticks  with  feathers  on 
them  for  Indian  chiefs.  Then,  with  amusing  gravity 
of  manner,  she  would  unfold  a  bit  of  newspaper  and 
read  what  she  called  Friend  Penn's  treaty  with  the  red 
men.  Her  sisters,  who  were  a  of  far  less  adventurous 
spirit,  often  said,  "  We  are  tired  of  always  playing  In 
dian.  Why  not  play  keep  school,  or  go  to  see  grand 
father  ?" 

But  Elizabeth  would  answer,  "  No  ;  let  us  play 
that  we  all  go  settle  in  America.  Well,  now  suppose 
we  are  in  the  woods,  with  great,  great,  big  trees  all 
round  us,  and  squirrels  running  up  and  down,  and 
wolves  growling." 

"  I  don't  like  wolves,"  said  little  Hannah,  "  they 
will  bite  thee.  Father  says  they  will  bite." 

"  I  shouldn't  be  afraid,"  replied  the  elder  sister;  "I 
would  run  into  the  house  and  shut  the  door,  when 
they  came  near  enough  for  me  to  see  their  eyes.  Here 
are  plenty  of  sticks.  Let  us  build  a  house  ;  a  wig 
wam,  I  mean.  Oh,  dear  me,  how  I  should  love  to  go 


THE    YOtTTHFTTL   EMIGRANT.  45 

to  America  !  There  must  be  such  grand  great  woods 
to  run  about  in ;  and  I  should  love  to  swing  the  little 
pappooses  in  the  trees." 

When  Elizabeth  was  eleven  years  old,  she  went 
with  her  parents  to  Yearly  Meeting,  and  heard,  among 
other  preachers,  a  young  man  seventeen  years  of  age, 
named  John  Estaugh.  He  was  a  new  proselyte, 
come  from  Essex  county,  to  join  the  annual  assembly 
of  the  Friends.  Something  in  his  preaching  arrested 
the  child's  attention,  and  made  a  strong  impression  on 
her  active  mind.  She  often  quoted  his  words  after 
wards,  and  began  to  read  religious  books  with  great 
diligence.  John  Had  don  invited  the  youth  home  to 
dine,  but  as  there  was  no  room  at  the  table  for  the 
children,  Elizabeth  did  not  see  him.  Her  father  after 
ward  showed  her  an  ear  of  Indian  corn,  which  John 
Estaugh  had  given  him.  He  had  received  several 
from  an  uncle  settled  in  New  England,  and  he  brought 
some  with  him  to  London  as  curiosities.  When  the 
little  girl  was  informed  that  the  magnificent  plant  grew 
taller  than  herself,  and  had  very  large  waving  green 
leaves,  and  long  silken  tassels,  she  exclaimed,  with 
renewed  eagerness,  "  Oh,  how  I  do  wish  I  could  go 
to  America ! " 

Years  passed  on,  and  as  the  child  had  been,  so  was 
the  maiden;  modest,  gentle  and  kind,  but  always 
earnest  and  full  of  life.  Surrounding  influences  na 
turally  guided  her  busy  intellect  into  inquiries  con 
cerning  the  right  principles  of  human  action,  and  the 
rationality  of  customary  usages.  At  seventeen,  she 
professed  to  have  adopted,  from  her  own  serious  con 
viction,  the  religious  opinions  in  which  she  had  been 


46  THE  YOUTHFUL  EMIGRANT. 

educated.  There  was  little  observable  change  in  out 
ward  manner  ;  for  the  fresh  spontaneousness  of  her 
character  had  been  early  chastened  by  habitual  calm 
ness  and  sobriety.  But  her  views  of  life  gradually 
became  tinged  with  a  larger  and  deeper  thoughtfulness. 
She  often  spoke  of  the  freedom  of  life  away  from 
cities,  and  alone  with  nature  ;  of  mutual  helpfulness 
in  such  a  state  of  society,  and  increased  means  of 
doing  good. 

Perhaps  her  influence,  more  than  anything  else,  in 
duced  her  father  to  purchase  a  tract  of  land  in  New 
Jersey,  with  the  view  of  removing  thither.  Mechanics 
were  sent  out  to  build  a  suitable  house  and  barns,  and 
the  family  were  to  be  transplanted  to  the  New  World 
as  soon  as  the  necessary  arrangements  were  completed. 
In  the  meantime,  however,  circumstances  occurred 
which  led  the  good  man  to  consider  it  his  duty  to  re 
main  in  England.  The  younger  daughters  were  well 
pleased  to  have  it  so;  but  Elizabeth,  though  she  ac 
quiesced  cheerfully  in  her  father's  decision,  evidently 
had  a  weight  upon  her  mind.  She  was  more  silent 
than  usual,  and  more  frequently  retired  to  her  cham 
ber  for  hours  of  quiet  communion  with  herself.  Some 
times,  when  asked  what  she  had  upon  her  mind,  she 
replied,  in  the  concise  solemn  manner  of  Friends,  "  It 
is  a  great  thing  to  be  a  humble  waiter  upon  the  Lord ; 
to  stand  in  readiness  to  follow  wheresoever  He  leads 
the  way." 

One  day,  some  friends,  who  were  at  the  house,  spoke 
of  the  New  Jersey  tract,  and  of  the  reasons  which 
had  prevented  a  removal  to  America.  Her  father  re 
plied,  that  he  was  unwilling  to  have  any  property 


THE  YOUTHFUL  EMIGRANT.  47 

lying  useless,  and  he  believed  he  should  offer  the  tract 
to  any  of  his  relatives  who  would  go  and  settle  upon 
it.  His  friends  answered,  "  Thy  relatives  are  too 
comfortably  established  in  England,  to  wish  to  emi 
grate  to  the  wilds  of  America." 

That  evening,  when  the  family  were  about  to  sepa 
rate  for  the  night,  Elizabeth  begged  them  to  remain  a 
while,  as  she  had  something  of  importance  to  say. 
"  Dear  parents  and  sisters,"  said  she,  "  it  is  now  a  long 
time  since  I  have  had  a  strong  impression  on  my  mind 
that  it  is  my  duty  to  go  to  America.  My  feelings 
have  been  greatly  drawn  toward  the  poor  brethren  and 
sisters  there.  It  has  even  been  clearly  pointed  out  to 
me  what  I  am  to  do.  It  has  been  lately  signified 
that  a  sign  would  be  given  when  the  way  was  opened ; 
and  to-night  when  I  heard  thy  proposition  to  give  the 
house  and  land  to  whoever  would  occupy  it,  I  felt  at 
once  that  thy  words  were  the  promised  sign." 

Her  parents,  having  always  taught  their  children  to 
attend  to  inward  revealings,  were  afraid  to  oppose 
what  she  so  strongly  felt  to  be  a  duty.  Her  mother, 
with  a  slight  trembling  in  her  voice,  asked  if  she  had 
reflected  well  on  all  the  difficulties  of  the  undertaking, 
and  how  arduous  a  task  it  was  for  a  young  woman  to. 
manage  a  farm  of  unbroken  land  in  a  new  country. 

Elizabeth  replied,  "  Young  women  have  governed 
kingdoms ;  and  surely  it  requires  less  wisdom  to 
manage  a  farm.  But  let  not  that  trouble  us,  dear 
mother.  He  that  feedeth  the  ravens  will  guide  me  in 
the  work  whereunto  he  has  called  me.  It  is  not  to 
cultivate  the  farm,  but  to  be  a  friend  and  physician  to 
the  people  in  that  region,  that  I  am  called." 


48  THE  YOUTHFUL  EMIGRANT. 

Her  father  answered,  "  Doubt  not,  my  child,  that 
we  shall  be  willing  to  give  thee  up  to  the  Lord's  dis- 
posings,  however  hard  the  trial  may  be.  But  when 
thou  wert  a  very  little  girl,  thy  imagination  was  much 
excited  concerning  America  ;  therefore,  thou  must  be 
very  careful  that  no  desire  for  new  adventures,  found 
ed  in  the  will  of  the  creature,  mislead  thee  from  the 
true  light  in  this  matter.  I  advise  thee  for  three 
months  to  make  it  a  subject  of  solid  meditation  and 
prayer.  Then,  if  our  lives  be  spared,  we  will  talk 
further  concerning  it." 

During  the  prescribed  time,  no  allusion  was  made  to 
the  subject,  though  it  was  in  the  thoughts  of  all ;  for 
this  highly  conscientious  family  were  unwilling  to 
confuse  inward  perceptions  by  any  expression  of  feel 
ing  or  opinion.  With  simple  undoubting  faith,  they 
sought  merely  to  ascertain  whether  the  Lord  required 
this  sacrifice.  That  their  daughter's  views  remained 
the  same,  they  partly  judged  by  her  increased  tender 
ness  toward  all  the  family.  She  was  not  sad,  but 
thoughtful  and  ever-wakeful,  as  toward  friends  from 
whom  she  was  about  to  separate.  It  was  likewise  ob 
servable  that  she  redoubled  her  diligence  in  obtaining 
knowledge  of  household  affairs,  of  agriculture,  and 
the  cure  of  common  diseases.  When  the  three 
months  had  expired,  she  declared  that  the  light  shone 
withundiminished  clearness,  and  she  felt,  more  strong 
ly  than  ever,  that  it  was  her  appointed  mission  to  com 
fort  and  strengthen  the  Lord's  people  in  the  New 
World. 

Accordingly,  early  in  the  spring  of  1700,  arrange 
ments  were  made  for  her  departure,  and  all  things 


THE    YOUTHFUL    EMIGRANT. 


were  provided  that  the  abundance  of  wealth,  or  the 
ingenuity  of  affection,  could  devise.  A  poor  widow  of 
good  sense  and  discretion  accompanied  her,  as  friend 
and  housekeeper,  and  two  trusty  men  servants,  mem 
bers  of  the  Society  of  Friends.  Among  the  many 
singular  manifestations  of  strong  faith  and  religious 
zeal,  connected  with  the  settlement  of  this  country, 
few  are  more  remarkable  than  the  voluntary  separa 
tion  of  this  girl  of  eighteen  years  old  from  a  wealthy 
home  and  all  the  pleasant  associations  of  childhood, 
to  go  to  a  distant  and  thinly  inhabited  country,  to 
fulfil  what  she  considered  a  religious  duty.  And  the 
humble,  self-sacrificing  faith  of  the  parents,  in  giving 
up  their  beloved  child,  with  such  reverend  tenderness 
for  the  promptings  of  her  own  conscience,  has  in  it 
something  sublimely  beautiful,  if  we  look  at  it  in  its 
OAvn  pure  light.  The  parting  took  place  with  more 
love  than  words  can  express,  and  yet  without  a  tear 
on  either  side.  Even  during  the  long  and  tedious 
voyage,  Elizabeth  never  wept.  She  preserved  a  mar 
tyr-like  cheerfulness  and  serenity  to  the  end. 

The  house  prepared  for  her  reception  stood  in  a 
clearing  of  the  forest,  three  miles  from  any  other 
dwelling.  She  arrived  in  June,  when  the  landscape 
was  smiling  in  youthful  beauty  ;  and  it  seemed  to  her 
as  if  the  arch  of  heaven  was  never  before  so  clear  and 
bright,  the  carpet  of  the  earth  never  so  verdant.  As 
she  sat  at  her  window  and  saw  evening  close  in  upon 
her  in  that  broad  forest  home,  and  heard,  for  the  first 
time,  the  mournful  notes  of  the  whippo-wil  and  the 
harsh  scream  of  the  jay  in  the  distant  woods,  she  was 
oppressed  with  a  sense  of  vastness,  of  infinity,  which 
5 


50  THE  YOUTHFUL  EMIGRANT. 

she  never  before  experienced,  not  even  on  the  ocean. 
She  remained  long  in  prayer,  and  when  she  lay  down 
to  sleep  beside  her  matron  friend,  no  words  were 
spoken  between  them.  The  elder,  overcome  with  fa 
tigue,  soon  sank  into  a  peaceful  slumber  ;  but  the 
young  enthusiastic  spirit  lay  long  awake,  listening  to 
the  lone  voice  of  the  whippo-wil  complaining  to  the 
night.  Yet  notwithstanding  this  prolonged  wakeful- 
ness,  she  rose  early  and  looked  out  upon  the  lovely 
landscape.  The  rising  sun  pointed  to  the  tallest  trees 
with  his  golden  ringer,  and  was  welcomed  with  a  gush 
of  song  from  a  thousand  warblers.  The  poetry  in 
Elizabeth's  soul,  repressed  by  the  severe  plainness 
of  her  education,  gushed  up  like  a  fountain.  She 
dropped  on  her  knees,  and  with  an  outburst  of  prayer 
exclaimed  fervently,  "  Oh,  Father,  very  beautiful  hast 
thou  made  this  earth !  How  bountiful  are  thy  gifts, 

0  Lord!" 

To  a  spirit  less  meek  and  brave,  the  darker  shades 
of  the  picture  would  have  obscured  these  cheerful 
gleams  ;  for  the  situation  was  lonely  and  the  incon 
veniences  innumerable.  But  Elizabeth  easily  tri 
umphed  over  all  obstacles,  by  her  practical  good  sense 
and  the  quick  promptings  of  her  ingenuity.  She 
was  one  of  those  clear  strong  natures,  who  always 
have  a  definite  aim  in  view,  and  who  see  at  once  the 
means  best  suited  to  the  end.  Her  first  inquiry  was, 
what  grain  was  best  adapted  to  the  soil  of  her  farm  ; 
and  being  informed  that  rye  would  yield  best,  "  Then 

1  shall  eat  rye  bread,"  was  her  answer.     The  ear  of 
Indian  corn,  so  long  treasured  in  her  juvenile  mu 
seum,  had  travelled  with  her  across  the  Atlantic,  to 


THE    YOUTHFUL   EMIGRANT.  51 

be  planted  in  American  soil.  When  she  saw  fields 
of  this  superb  plant,  she  acknowledged  that  it  more 
than  realized  the  picture  of  her  childish  imagination. 
But  when  winter  came,  and  the  gleaming  snow 
spread  its  unbroken  silence  over  hill  and  plain,  was 
it  not  dreary  then  ?  It  would  have  been  dreary  in 
deed  to  one  who  entered  upon  this  mode  of  life  from 
mere  love  of  novelty,  or  a  vain  desire  to  do  something 
extraordinary.  But  the  idea  of  extended  usefulness, 
which  had  first  lured  this  remarkable  girl  into  a  path 
so  unusual,  sustained  her  through  all  its  trials.  She 
was  too  busy  to  be  sad,  and  she  leaned  too  trustingly 
on  her  Father's  hand  to  be  doubtful  of  her  way. 
The  neighbouring  Indians  soon  loved  her  as  a  friend, 
for  they  found  her  always  truthful,  just,  and  kind. 
From  their  teachings,  she  added  much  to  her  know 
ledge  of  simple  medicines.  So  efficient  was  her 
skill  and  so  prompt  her  sympathy,  that  for  many  miles 
round,  if  man,  woman,  or  child  were  alarmingly  ill, 
they  were  sure  to  send  for  Elizabeth  Haddon ;  and 
wherever  she  went,  her  observing  mind  gathered  some 
new  hint  for  the  improvement  of  farm  or  dairy.  Her 
house  and  heart  were  both  large ;  and  as  her  resi 
dence  was  on  the  way  to  the  Quaker  meeting-house 
in  Newtown,  it  became  a  place  of  universal  resort  to 
Friends  from  all  parts  of  the  country  travelling  that 
road,  as  well  as  an  asylum  for  benighted  wanderers. 
When  Elizabeth  was  asked  if  she  were  not  sometimes 
afraid  of  wayfarers,  she  quietly  replied,  "  Perfect  love 
casteth  out  fear."  And  true  it  was  that  she,  who 
was  so  bountiful  and  kind  to  all,  found  none  to  injure 
her. 


52  THE    YOUTHFUL    EMIGRANT. 

The  winter  was  drawing  to  a  close,  when  late  one 
evening,  the  sound  of  sleigh-bells  was  heard,  and  the 
crunching  of  snow  beneath  the  hoofs  of  horses,  as 
they  passed  into  the  barn-yard  gate.  The  arrival  of 
travellers  was  too  common  an  occurrence  to  excite  or 
disturb  the  well-ordered  family.  Elizabeth  quietly 
continued  her  knitting,  merely  saying  to  one  of  the 
men,  "  Joseph,  wilt  thou  put  more  wood  on  the  fire  ? 
These  friends,  whoever  they  may  be,  will  doubtless 
be  cold ;  for  I  observed  at  nightfall  a  chilly  feeling, 
as  of  more  snow  in  the  air." 

Great  logs  were  piled  in  the  capacious  chimney, 
and  the  flames  blazed  up  with  a  crackling  warmth, 
when  two  strangers  entered.  In  the  younger,  Eliza 
beth  instantly  recognised  John  Estaugh,  whose 
preaching  had  so  deeply  impressed  her  at  eleven  years 
of  age.  This  was  almost  like  a  glimpse  of  home — 
her  dear  old  English  home !  She  stepped  forward 
with  more  than  usual  cordiality,  saying  : 

"  Thou  art  welcome,  Friend  Estaugh  ;  the  more  so 
for  being  entirely  unexpected." 

"  And  I  am  glad  to  see  thee,  Elizabeth,"  he  replied, 
with  a  friendly  shake  of  the  hand.  "  It  was  not  until 
after  I  landed  in  America,  that  I  heard  the  Lord  had 
called  thee  hither  before  me ;  but  I  remember  thy 
father  told  me  how  often  thou  hadst  played  the  settler 
in  the  woods,  when  thou  wast  quite  a  little  girl." 

"  I  am  but  a  child  still,"  she  replied,  smiling. 

"  I  trust  thou  art,"  he  rejoined;  "  and  as  for  these 
strong  impressions  in  childhood,  I  have  heard  of 
many  cases  where  they  seemed  to  be  prophecies  sent 
of  the  Lord.  When  I  saw  thy  father  in  London,  I 


THE  YOUTHFUL  EMIGRANT.  53 

had  even  then  an  indistinct  idea  that  I  might  some 
time  be  sent  to  America  on  a  religious  visit." 

"  And  hast  thou  forgotten,  Friend  John,  the  ear  of 
Indian  corn  which  my  father  begged  of  thee  for  me  ? 
I  can  show  it  to  thee  now.  Since  then  I  have  seen 
this  grain  in  perfect  growth ;  and  a  goodly  plant  it 
is,  I  assure  thee.  See,"  she  continued,  pointing  to 
many  bunches  of  ripe  corn,  which  hung  in  their 
braided  husks  against  the  walls  of  the  ample  kitchen  : 
"  all  that,  and  more,  came  from  a  single  ear.  no  bigger 
than  the  one  thou  didst  give  my  father.  May  the 
seed  sown  by  thy  ministry  be  as  fruitful  !" 

"  Amen,"  replied  both  the  guests  ;  and  for  a  few 
moments  no  one  interrupted  the  silence.  Then  they 
talked  much  of  England.  John  Estaugh  had  not 
seen  any  of  the  Haddon  family  for  several  years ;  but 
he  brought  letters  from  them,  which  came  by  the 
same  ship,  and  he  had  information  to  give  of  many 
whose  names  were  familiar  as  household  words. 

The  next  morning,  it  was  discovered  that  snow  had 
fallen  during  the  night  in  heavy  drifts,  and  the  roads 
were  impassable.  Elizabeth,  according  to  her  usual 
custom,  sent  out  men,  oxen  and  sledges,  to  open 
pathways  for  several  poor  families,  and  for  house 
holds  whose  inmates  were  visited  by  illness.  In  this 
duty,  John  Estaugh  and  his  friend  joined  heartily, 
and  none  of  the  labourers  worked  harder  than  they. 
When  he  returned,  glowing  from  this  exercise,  she 
could  not  but  observe  that  the  excellent  youth  had  a 
goodly  countenance.  It  was  not  physical  beauty ;  for 
of  that  he  had  little.  It  was  that  cheerful,  child-like, 
out-beaming  honesty  of  expression,  which  we  not 
5* 


54  THE    YOUTHFUL   EMIGRANT. 

unfrequently  see  in  Germans,  who,  above  all  nations, 
look  as  if  they  carried  a  crystal  heart  within  their 
manly  bosoms. 

Two  days  after,  when  Elizabeth  went  to  visit  her 
patients,  with  a  sled-load  of  medicines  and  provisions, 
John  asked  permission  to  accompany  her.  There,  by 
the  bedside  of  the  aged  and  the  suffering,  she  saw  the 
clear  sincerity  of  his  countenance  warmed  up  with 
rays  of  love,  while  he  spoke  to  them  words  of  kind 
ness  and  consolation  ;  and  there  she  heard  his  plea 
sant  voice  modulate  itself  into  deeper  tenderness  of 
expression,  when  he  took  little  children  in  his  arms. 

The  next  First  Day,  which  we  call  the  Sabbath, 
the  whole  family,  as  usual,  attended  Newtown  meet 
ing;  and  there  John  Estaugh  was  gifted  with  an  out 
pouring  of  the  spirit  in  his  ministry,  which  sank  deep 
into  the  hearts  of  those  who  listened  to  him.  Eliza 
beth  found  it  so  marvellously  applicable  to  the  trials 
and  temptations  of  her  own  soul,  that  she  almost 
deemed  it  was  spoken  on  purpose  for  her.  She  said 
nothing  of  this,  but  she  pondered  upon  it  deeply. 
Thus  did  a  few  days  of  united  duties  make  them 
more  thoroughly  acquainted  with  each  other,  than 
they  could  have  been  by  years  of  fashionable  inter 
course. 

The  young  preacher  soon  after  bade  farewell,  to 
visit  other  meetings  in  Pennsylvania  and  New  Jer 
sey.  Elizabeth  saw  him  no  more  until  the  May  fol 
lowing,  when  he  stopped  at  her  house  to  lodge,  with 
numerous  other  Friends,  on  their  way  to  the  Quar 
terly  Meeting  at  Salem.  In  the  morning,  quite  a 
cavalcade  started  from  her  hospitable  door,  on  horse- 


THE  YOUTHFUL  EMIGRANT.  55 

back ;  for  wagons  were  then  unknown  in  Jersey. 
John  Estaugh,  always  kindly  in  his  impulses,  busied 
himself  with  helping  a  lame  and  very  ugly  old  wo 
man,  and  left  his  hostess  to  mount  her  horse  as  she 
could.  Most  young  women  would  have  felt  slighted ; 
but  in  Elizabeth's  noble  soul  the  quiet  deep  tide  of 
feeling  rippled  with  an  inward  joy.  "  He  is  always 
kindest  to  the  poor  and  the  neglected,"  thought  she ; 
"  verily  he  is  a  good  youth."  She  was  leaning  over 
the  side  of  her  horse,  to  adjust  the  buckle  of  the  girth, 
when  he  came  up  on  horseback,  and  inquired  if  any 
thing  was  out  of  order.  She  thanked  him,  with 
slight  confusion  of  manner,  and  a  voice  less  calm  than 
her  usual  utterance.  He  assisted  her  to  mount,  and 
they  trotted  along  leisurely  behind  the  procession  of 
guests,  speaking  of  the  soil  and  climate  of  this  new 
country,  and  how  wonderfully  the  Lord  had  here 
provided  a  home  for  his  chosen  people.  Presently 
the  girth  began  to  slip,  and  the  saddle  turned  so  much 
on  one  side,  that  Elizabeth  was  obliged  to  dismount. 
It  took  some  time  to  re-adjust  it,  and  when  they 
again  started,  the  company  were  out  of  sight.  There 
was  brighter  colour  than  usual  in  the  maiden's  cheeks, 
and  unwonted  radiance  in  her  mild  deep  eyes.  After 
a  short  silence,  she  said,  in  a  voice  slightly  tremu 
lous,  "  Friend  John,  I  have  a  subject  of  great  impor 
tance  on  my  mind,  and  one  which  nearly  interests 
thee.  I  am  strongly  impressed  that  the  Lord  has 
sent  thee  to  me  as  a  partner  for  life.  I  tell  thee  my 
impression  frankly,  but  not  without  calm  and  deep 
reflection ;  for  matrimony  is  a  holy  relation,  and 
should  be  entered  into  with  all  sobriety.  If  thou 


56  THE  YOUTHFUL  EMIGRANT. 

hast  no  light  on  the  subject,  wilt  thou  gather  into  the 
stillness,  and  reverently  listen  to  thy  own  inward  re- 
vealings  ?  Thou  art  to  leave  this  part  of  the  country 
to-morrow,  and  not  knowing  when  I  should  see  thee 
again,  1  felt  moved  to  tell  thee  what  lay  upon  my 
mind." 

The  young  man  was  taken  by  surprise.  Though 
accustomed  to  that  suppression  of  emotion,  which 
characterizes  his  religious  sect,  the  colour  went  and 
came  rapidly  in  his  face,  for  a  moment ;  but  he  soon 
became  calmer,  and  replied,  "  This  thought  is  new  to 
me,'  Elizabeth  ;  and  I  have  no  light  thereon.  Thy 
company  has  been  right  pleasant  to  me,  and  thy 
countenance  ever  reminds  me  of  William  Penn's  title- 
page,  '  Innocency  with  her  open  face.'  I  have  seen 
thy  kindness  to  the  poor,  and  the  wise  management 
of  thy  household.  I  have  observed,  too,  that  thy 
warm-heartedness  is  tempered  by  a  most  excellent 
discretion,  and  that  thy  speech  is  ever  sincere.  As 
suredly,  such  is  the  maiden  I  would  ask  of  the  Lord, 
as  a  most  precious  gift ;  but  I  never  thought  of  this 
connexion  with  thee.  I  came  to  this  country  solely 
on  a  religious  visit,  and  it  might  distract  my  mind  to 
entertain  this  subject  at  present.  When  I  have  dis 
charged  the  duties  of  my  mission,  we  will  speak 
further." 

"  It  is  best  so,"  rejoined  the  maiden  ;  "  but  there  i3 
one  thing  disturbs  my  conscience.  Thou  hast  spoken 
of  my  true  speech  ;  arid  yet,  Friend  John,  I  have 
deceived  thee  a  little,  even  now,  while  we  conferred 
together  on  a  subject  so  serious.  I  know  not  from  what 
weakness  the  temptation  came  ;  but  I  will  not  hide  it 


THE  YOUTHFUL  EMIGRANT.  57 

from  thee.  I  allowed  thee  to  suppose,  just  now,  that 
I  was  fastening  the  girth  of  my  horse  securely  ;  but,  in 
plain  truth,  I  was  loosening  the  girth,  John,  that  the 
saddle  might  slip,  and  give  me  an  excuse  to  fall  behind 
our  friends;  for  I  thought  thou  wouldst  be  kind 
enough  to  come  and  ask  if  I  needed  thy  services." 

This  pure  transparency  of  motive  seemed  less 
wonderful  to  John  Estaugh,  than  it  would  to  a  man 
more  accustomed  to  worldly  ways,  or  less  familiar  with 
the  simplicity  of  primitive  Quakers.  Nevertheless, 
the  perfect  guilelessness  of  the  maiden  endeared  her  to 
his  honest  heart,  and  he  found  it  difficult  to  banish 
from  his  thoughts  the  important  subject  she  had  sug 
gested.  It  was  observable  in  this  singular  courtship, 
that  no  mention  was  made  of  wordly  substance.  John 
did  not  say,  "  I  am  poor,  and  thou  art  rich;"  he  did 
not  even  think  of  it.  And  it  had  entered  Elizabeth's 
mind  only  in  the  form  of  thankfulness  to  God  that  she 
was  provided  with  a  home  large  enough  for  both. 

They  spoke  no  further  concerning  their  union  ;  but 
when  he  returned  to  England,  in  July,  he  pressed  her 
hand  affectionately,  as  he  said,  "  Farewell,  Elizabeth. 
If  it  be  the  Lord's  will,  I  shall  return  to  thee  soon." 
He  lingered,  and  their  hands  trembled  in  each  other's 
clasp  ;  then  drawing  her  gently  toward  him,  he  im 
printed  a  kiss  on  her  open  innocent  forehead.  She 
looked  modestly  into  his  clear  honest  eyes,  and  replied 
in  the  kindest  tones,  "  Farewell,  Friend  John ;  may 
the  Lord  bless  thee  and  guide  thee." 

In  October,  he  returned  to  America,  and  they  were 
soon  after  married,  at  Newtown  meeting,  according  to 
the  simple  form  of  the  Society  of  Friends.  Neither 


58  THE  YOUTHFUL  EMIGRANT. 

of  them  made  any  change  of  dress  for  the  occasion,  and 
there  was  no  wedding  feast.  Without  the  aid  of  priest 
or  magistrate,  they  took  each  other  by  the  hand,  and,  in 
the  presence  of  witnesses,  calmly  and  solemly  promised 
to  be  kind  and  faithful  to  each  other.  Their  mutual 
promises  were  recorded  in  the  church  books,  and  the 
wedded  pair  quietly  returned  to  their  happy  home, 
with  none  to  intrude  upon  those  sacred  hours  of  hu 
man  life,  when  the  heart  most  needs  to  be  left  alone 
with  its  own  deep  emotions. 

During  the  long  period  of  their  union,  she  three 
times  crossed  the  Atlantic,  to  visit  her  aged  parents, 
and  he  occasionally  left  her  for  a  season,  when  called 
abroad  to  preach.  These  temporary  separations  were, 
felt  as  a  cross,  but  the  strong-hearted  woman  always 
cheerfully  gave  him  up  to  follow  his  own  convictions 
of  duty.  In  1742,  he  parted  from  her,  to  go  on  a 
religious  visit  to  Tortola,  in  the  West  Indies.  He 
died  there,  in  the  sixty-seventh  year  of  his  age.  A 
friend,  in  a  letter  informing  her  of  the  event,  says : 
"  A  shivering  fit,  followed  by  fever,  seized  him  on  the 
first  day  of  the  tenth  month.  He  took  great  notice 
that  it  ended  forty  years  since  his  marriage  with  thee  ; 
that  during  that  time  you  had  lived  in  much  love,  and 
had  parted  in  the  same  ;  and  that  leaving  thee  was 
his  greatest  concern  of  all  outward  enjoyments.  On 
the  sixth  day  of  the  tenth  month,  about  six  o'clock  at 
night,  he  went  away  like  a  lamb."  She  published  a 
religious  tract  of  his,  to  which  is  prefixed  a  preface, 
entitled  "  Elizabeth  Estaugh's  testimony  concerning 
her  beloved  husband,  John  Estaugh."  In  this  preface, 
she  says,  "  Since  it  pleased  Divine  Providence  so  high 


THE  YOUTHFUL  EMIGRANT.  59 

ly  to  favour  me,  with  being  the  near  companion  of  this 
dear  worthy,  I  must  give  some  small  account  of  him. 
Few,  if  any,  in  a  married  state,  ever  lived  in  sweeter 
harmony  than  we  did.  He  was  a  pattern  of  modera 
tion  in  all  things ;  not  lifted  up  with  any  enjoyments, 
nor  cast  down  at  disappointments.  A  man  endowed 
with  many  good  gifts,  which  rendered  him  very  agree 
able  to  his  friends,  and  much  more  to  me,  his  wife,  to 
whom  his  memory  is  most  dear  and  precious." 

Elizabeth  survived  her  excellent  husband  twenty 
years,  useful  and  honoured  to  the  last.  The  Month 
ly  Meeting  of  Haddonfield,  in  a  published  testimonial, 
speak  of  her  thus  :  "  She  was  endowed  with  great 
natural  abilities,  which,  being  sanctified  by  the  spirit 
of  Christ,  were  much  improved  ;  whereby  she  became 
qualified  to  act  in  the  affairs  of  the  church,  and  was 
a  serviceable  member,  having  been  clerk  to  the 
women's  meeting  nearly  fifty  years,  greatly  to  their 
satisfaction.  She  was  a  sincere  sympathiser  with  the 
afflicted,  of  a  benevolent  disposition,  and  in  distribut 
ing  to  the  poor,  was  desirous  to  do  it  in  a  way  most 
profitable  and  durable  to  them,  and  if  possible  not  to 
let  the  right  hand  know  what  the  left  did.  Though 
in  a  state  of  affluence  as  to  this  world's  wealth,  she 
was  an  example  of  plainness  and  moderation.  Her 
heart  and  house  were  open  to  her  friends,  whom  to 
entertain  seemed  one  of  her  greatest  pleasures.  Pru 
dently  cheerful,  and  well  knowing  the  value  of  friend 
ship,  she  was  careful  not  to  wound  it  herself,  nor  to 
encourage  others  in  whispering  supposed  failings  or 
weaknesses.  Her  last  illness  brought  great  bodily 
pain,  which  she  bore  with  much  calmness  of  mind 


60  THE  YOUTHFUL  EMIGRANT. 

and  sweetness  of  spirit.  She  departed  this  life  as  one 
falling  asleep,  full  of  days,  like  unto  a  shock  of  corn, 
fully  ripe." 

The  town  of  Haddonfield,  in  New-Jersey,  took  its 
name  from  her;  and  the  tradition  concerning  her 
courtship  is  often  repeated  by  some  patriarch  among 
the  Quakers.  She  laid  out  an  extensive  garden  in 
rear  of  the  house,  which  during  her  day  was  much 
celebrated  for  its  herbs,  vegetables  and  fruits,  liberally 
distributed  all  round  the  neighbourhood.  The  house 
was  burned  down  years  ago  ;  but  some  fine  old  yew 
trees,  which  she  brought  from  England,  are  still 
pointed  out  on  the  site  where  the  noble  garden  once 
nourished.  Her  medical  skill  is  so  well  remembered, 
that  the  old  nurses  of  New-Jersey  still  recommend 
Elizabeth  Estaugh's  salve  as  the  "  sovereignest  thing 
on  earth." 

The  brick  tomb  in  which  John  Estaugh  was  buried 
at  Tortola,  is  still  pointed  out  to  Quaker  travellers ; 
one  of  whom  recently  writes,  "  By  a  circuitous  path, 
through  a  dense  thicket,  we  came  to  the  spot  where 
Friends  once  had  a  meeting-house,  and  where  are 
buried  the  remains  of  several  of  our  valued  ministers, 
who  visited  this  island  about  a  century  ago,  from  a 
sense  of  gospel  love.  Time  has  made  his  ravages  upon 
these  mansions  of  the  dead.  The  acacia  spreads  thick 
ly  its  thorny  branches  over  them,  and  near  them  the 
century -blooming  aloe  is  luxuriantly  growing." 


THE  QUADROONS 


"I  promised  the*  a  sister  tale, 
Of  man's  perfidious  cruelty : 
Come  then  and  bear  what  cruel  wrong 
Befell  the  dark  Ladie."  COLERIDGB. 

NOT  far  from  Augusta,  Georgia,  there  is  a  pleasant 
place  called  Sand-Hills,  appropriated  almost  exclu 
sively  to  summer  residences  for  the  wealthy  inhabit 
ants  of  the  neighbouring  city.  Among  the  beautiful 
cottages  that  adorn  it  was  one  far  retired  from  the  pub 
lic  roads,  and  almost  hidden  among  the  trees.  It  was 
a  perfect  model  of  rural  beauty.  The  piazzas  that 
surrounded  it  were  wreathed  with  Clematis  and  Pas 
sion  Flower.  Magnificent  Magnolias,  and  the  superb 
Pride  of  India,  threw  shadows  around  .it,  and  filled 
the  air  with  fragrance.  Flowers  peeped  out  from 
every  nook,  and  nodded  to  you  in  bye-places,  with  a 
most  unexpected  wejcome.  The  tasteful  hand  of  Art 
had  not  learned  to  imitate  the  lavish  beauty  and  har 
monious  disorder  of  Nature,  but  they  lived  together  in 
loving  unity,  and  spoke  in  according  tones.  The  gate 
way  rose  in  a  Gothic  arch,  with  graceful  tracery  in 
iron-work,  surmounted  by  a  Cross,  around  which  flut 
tered  and  played  the  Mountain  Fringe,  that  lightest 
and  most  fragile  of  vines. 

The  inhabitants  of  this  cottage  remained  in  it  all 
6 


62  THE    QUADROONS. 

the  year  round,  and  peculiarly  enjoyed  the  season 
that  left  them  without  neighbours.  To  one  of  the 
parties,  indeed,  the  fashionable  summer  residents,  that 
came  and  went  with  the  butterflies,  were  merely  neigh- 
bours-in-law.  The  edicts  of  society  had  built  up  a 
wall  of  separation  between  her  and  them  ;  for  she  was 
a  quadroon.  Conventional  laws  could  not  be  reversed 
in  her  favour,  though  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  weal 
thy  merchant,  was  highly  cultivated  in  mind  and  man 
ners,  graceful  as  an  antelope,  and  beautiful  as  the  eve 
ning  star.  She  had  early  attracted  the  attention  of  a 
handsome  and  wealthy  young  Georgian;  and  as  their 
acquaintance  increased,  the  purity  and  bright  intelli 
gence  of  her  mind,  inspired  him  with  far  deeper  in 
terest  than  is  ever  excited  by  mere  passion.  It  was 
genuine  love;  that  mysterious  union  of  soul  and  sense, 
in  which  the  lowliest  dew-drop  reflects  the  image  of 
the  highest  star. 

The  tenderness  of  Rosalie's  conscience  required  an 
outward  form  of  marriage ;  though  she  well  knew 
that  a  union  with  her  proscribed  race  was  unrecog 
nised  by  law,  and  therefore  the  ceremony  gave  her  no 
legal  hold  on  Edward's  constancy.  But  her  high 
poetic  nature  regarded  the  reality,  rather  than  the  sem 
blance  of  things ;  and  when  he  playfully  asked  how 
she  could  keep  him  if  he  wished  to  run  away,  she  re 
plied,  "  Let  the  church  that  my  mother  loved  sanction 
our  union,  and  my  own  soul  will  be  satisfied,  without 
the  protection  of  the  state.  If  your  affections  fall  from 
me,  I  would  not,  if  I  could,  hold  you  by  a  legal  fetter." 

It  was  a  marriage  sanctioned  by  Heaven,  though 


THE    QUADROONS.  63 

unrecognised  on  earth.  The  picturesque  cotcage  at 
Sand-Hills  was  built  for  the  young  bride  under  her 
own  direction ;  and  there  they  passed  ten  as  happy 
years  as  ever  blessed  the  heart  of  mortals.  It  was 
Edward's  fancy  to  name  their  eldest  child  Xarifa ;  in 
commemoration  of  a  quaint  old  Spanish  ballad,  which 
had  first  conveyed  to  his  ears  the  sweet  tones  of  her 
mother's  voice.  Her  flexile  form  and  nimble  motions 
were  in  harmony  with  the  breezy  sound  of  the  name  ; 
and  its  Moorish  origin  was  most  appropriate  to  one  so 
emphatically  "  a  child  of  the  sun."  Her  complexion, 
of  a  still  lighter  brown  than  Rosalie's,  was  rich  and 
glowing  as  an  autumnal  leaf.  The  iris  of  her  large, 
dark  eye  had  the  melting,  mezzotinto  outline,  which 
remains  the  last  vestige  of  African  ancestry,  and  gives 
that  plaintive  expression,  so  often  observed,  and  so  ap 
propriate  to  that  docile  and  injured  race. 

Xarifa  learned  no  lessons  of  humility  or  shame, 
within  her  own  happy  home ;  for  she  grew  up  in  the 
warm  atmosphere  of  father's  and  mother's  love,  like  a 
flower  open  to  the  sunshine,  and  sheltered  from  the 
winds.  But  in  summer  walks  with  her  beautiful 
mother,  her  young  cheek  often  mantled  at  the  rude 
gaze  of  the  young  men,  and  her  dark  eye  flashed  fire, 
when  some  contemptuous  epithet  met  her  ear,  as 
white  ladies  passed  them  by,  in  scornful  pride  and  ill- 
concealed  envy. 

Happy  as  Rosalie  was  in  Edward's  love,  and  sur 
rounded  by  an  outward  environment  of  beauty,  so  well 
adapted  to  her  poetic  spirit,  she  felt  these  incidents 
with  inexpressible  pain.  For  herself,  she  cared  but 


64 


THE    QUADROONS. 


little;  for  she  had  found  a  sheltered  home  in  Edward's 
heart,  which  the  world  might  ridicule,  but  had  no 
power  to  profane.  But  when  she  looked  at  her  be 
loved  Xarifa,  and  reflected  upon  the  unavoidable  and 
dangerous  position  which  the  tyranny  of  society  had 
awarded  her,  her  soul  was  filled  with  anguish.  The 
rare  loveliness  of  the  child  increased  daily,  and  was 
evidently  ripening  into  most  marvellous  beauty.  The 
father  rejoiced  in  it  with  unmingled  pride ;  but  in  the 
deep  tenderness  of  the  mother's  eye  there  was  an  in 
dwelling  sadness,  that  spoke  of  anxious  thoughts  and 
fearful  forebodings. 

When  Xarifa  entered  her  ninth  year,  these  uneasy 
feelings  found  utterance  in  earnest  solicitations  that 
Edward  would  remove  to  France,  or  England.  This 
request  excited  but  little  opposition,  and  was  so  attrac 
tive  to  his  imagination,  that  he  might  have  overcome 
all  intervening  obstacles,  had  not  "  a  change  come 
o'er  the  spirit  of  his  dream."  He  still  loved  Rosalie  , 
but  he  was  now  twenty-eight  years  old,  and,  uncon 
sciously  to  himself,  ambition  had  for  some  time  been 
slowly  gaining  an  ascendency  over  his  other  feelings. 
The  contagion  of  example  had  led  him  into  the  arena 
where  so  much  American  strength  is  wasted ;  he  had 
thrown  himself  into  political  excitement,  with  all  the 
honest  fervour  of  youthful  feeling.  His  motives  had 
been  unmixed  with  selfishness,  nor  could  he  ever  de 
fine  to  himself  when  or  how  sincere  patriotism  took 
the  form  of  personal  ambition.  But  so  it  was,  that  at 
twenty-eight  years  old,  he  found  himself  an  ambitious 
man,  involved  in  movements  which  his  frank  nature 


THE    QUADROONS.  65 

would  have  once  abhorred,  and  watching  the  doubtful 
game  of  mutual  cunning  with  all  the  fierce  excitement 
of  a  gambler. 

Among  those  on  whom  his  political  success  most 
depended,  was  a  very  popular  and  wealthy  man,  who 
had  an  only  daughter.  His  visits  to  the  house  were 
at  first  of  a  purely  political  nature ;  but  the  young 
lady  was  pleasing,  and  he  fancied  he  discovered  in 
her  a  sort  of  timid  preference  for  himself.  This  ex 
cited  his  vanity,  and  awakened  thoughts  of  the  great 
worldly  advantages  connected  with  a  union.  Remi 
niscences  of  his  first  love  kept  these  vague  ideas  in 
check  for  several  months  ;  but  Rosalie's  image  at  last 
became  an  unwelcome  intruder  ;  for  with  it  was  asso 
ciated  the  idea  of  restraint.  Moreover  Charlotte, 
though  inferior  in  beauty,  was  yet  a  pretty  contrast 
to  her  rival.  Her  light  hair  fell  in  silken  profusion, 
her  blue  eyes  were  gentle,  though  inexpressive,  and 
her  delicate  cheeks  were  like  blush-rose-buds. 

He  had  already  become  accustomed  to  the  danger 
ous  experiment  of  resisting  his  own  inward  convic 
tions  ;  and  this  new  impulse  to  ambition,  combined 
with  the  strong  temptation  of  variety  in  love,  met  the 
ardent  young  man  weakened  in  moral  principle,  and 
unfettered  by  laws  of  the  land.  The  change  wrought 
upon  him  was  soon  noticed  by  Rosalie. 

"In  many  ways  does  the  full  heart  reveal 

The  presence  of  the  love  it  would  conceal; 

But  in  far  more  the  estranged  heart  lets  know 

The  absence  of  the  lore,  which  yet  it  fain  would  show." 

At  length  the  news  of  his  approaching  marriage 
met  her  ear.     Her  head  grew  dizzy,  and  her   heart 
6* 


66  THE    QUADROONS. 

fainted  within  her  ;  but,  with  a  strong  effort  at  com 
posure,  she  inquired  all  the  particulars  ;  and  her  pure 
mind  at  once  took  its  resolution.  Edward  came  that 
evening,  and  though  she  would  have  fain  met  him  as 
usual,  her  heart  was  too  full  not  to  throw  a  deep  sad 
ness  over  her  looks  and  tones.  She  had  never  com 
plained  of  his  decreasing  tenderness,  or  of  her  own 
lonely  hours  ;  but  he  felt  that  the  mute  appeal  of  her 
heart-broken  looks  was  more  terrible  than  words.  He 
kissed  the  hand  she  offered,  and  with  a  countenance 
almost  as  sad  as  her  own,  led  her  to  a  window  in  the 
recess,  shadowed  by  a  luxuriant  Passion  Flower.  It 
was  the  same  seat  where  they  had  spent  the  first 
evening  in  this  beautiful  cottage,  consecrated  to  their 
youthful  loves.  The  same  calm,  clear  moonlight 
looked  in  through  the  trellis.  The  vine  then  planted 
had  now  a  luxuriant  growth  ;  and  many  a  time  had 
Edward  fondly  twined  its  sacred  blossoms  with  the 
glossy  ringlets  of  her  raven  hair.  The  rush  of  mem 
ory  almost  overpowered  poor  Rosalie  ;  and  Edward 
felt  too  much  oppressed  and  ashamed  to  break  the 
long,  deep  silence.  At  length,  in  words  scarcely  au 
dible,  Rosalie  said,  "  Tell  me,  dear  Edward,  are  you 
to  be  married  next  week  ?"  He  dropped  her  hand,  as 
if  a  rifle-ball  had  struck  him ;  and  it  was  not  until 
after  long  hesitation,  that  he  began  to  make  some  re 
ply  about  the  necessity  of  circumstances.  Mildly, 
but  earnestly,  the  poor  girl  begged  him  to  spare  apol 
ogies.  It  was  enough  that  he  no  longer  loved  her, 
and  that  they  must  bid  farewell.  Trusting  to  the 
yielding  tenderness  of  her  character,  he  ventured,  in 
the  most  soothing  accents,  to  suggest  that  as  he  still 


THE    QUADROONS.  67 

loved  her  better  than  all  the  world,  she  would  ever  be 
his  real  wife,  and  they  might  see  each  other  frequent 
ly.  He  was  not  prepared  for  the  storm  of  indignant 
emotion  his  words  excited.  Hers  was  a  passion  too 
absorbing  to  admit  of  partnership  ;  and  her  spirit  was 
too  pure  and  kind  to  enter  into  a  selfish  league  against 
the  happiness  of  the  innocent  young  bride. 

At  length  this  painful  interview  came  to  an  end. 
They  stood  together  by  the  Gothic  gate,  where  they 
had  so  often  met  and  parted  in  the  moonlight.  Old 
remembrances  melted  their  souls.  "  Farewell,  dear 
est  Edward,"  said  Rosalie.  "  Give  me  a  parting 
kiss."  Her  voice  was  choked  for  utterance,  and  the 
tears  flowed  freely,  as  she  bent  her  lips  toward  him. 
He  folded  her  convulsively  in  his  arms,  and  imprinted 
a  long,  impassioned  kiss  on  that  mouth,  which  had 
never  spoken  to  him  but  in  love  and  blessing. 

With  effort  like  a  death-pang,  she  at  length 
raised  her  head  from  his  heaving  bosom,  and  turning 
from  him  with  bitter  sobs,  she  said,  "  It  is  our  last. 
God  bless  you.  I  would  not  have  you  so  miserable 
as  I  am.  Farewell.  A  last  farewell."  "  The  last  !" 
exclaimed  he,  with  a  wild  shriek.  "  Oh,  Rosalie,  do 
not  say  that !"  and  covering  his  face  with  his  hands, 
he  wept  like  a  child. 

Recovering  from  his  emotion,  he  found  himself 
alone.  The  moon  looked  down  upon  him  mild,  but 
very  sorrowful ;  as  the  Madonna  seems  to  gaze  on 
her  worshipping  children,  bowed  down  with  conscious 
ness  of  sin.  At  that  moment  he  would  have  given 
worlds  to  have  disengaged  himself  from  Charlotte ; 
but  he  had  gone  so  far,  that  blame,  disgrace,  and  duels 


68  THE    QUADROONS. 

with  angry  relatives,  would  now  attend  any  effort  to 
obtain  his  freedom.  Oh,  how  the  moonlight  oppress 
ed  him  with  its  friendly  sadness  !  It  was  like  the 
plaintive  eye  of  his  forsaken  one ;  like  the  music  of 
sorrow  echoed  from  an  unseen  world. 

Long  and  earnestly  he  gazed  at  that  dwelling, 
where  he  had  so  long  known  earth's  purest  foretaste 
of  heavenly  bliss.  Slowly  he  walked  away ;  then 
turned  again  to  look  on  that  charmed  spot,  the  nest 
ling-place  of  his  young  affections.  He  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Rosalie,  weeping  beside  a  magnolia,  which 
commanded  a  long  view  of  the  path  leading  to  the 
public  road.  He  would  have  sprung  toward  her,  but 
she  darted  from  him,  and  entered  the  cottage.  That 
graceful  figure,  weeping  in  the  moonlight,  haunted 
him  for  years.  It  stood  before  his  closing  eyes,  and 
greeted  him  with  the  morning  dawn. 

Poor  Charlotte  !  had  she  known  all,  what  a  dreary 
lot  would  hers  have  been  ;  but  fortunately,  she  could 
not  miss  the  impassioned  tenderness  she  had  never 
experienced;  and  Edward  was  the  more  careful  in  his 
kindness,  because  he  was  deficient  in  love.  Once  or 
twice  she  heard  him  murmur,  "  dear  Rosalie,"  in  his 
sleep  ;  but  the  playful  charge  she  brought  was  play 
fully  answered,  and  the  incident  gave  her  :  o  real  un 
easiness.  The  summer  after  their  marriage,  she  pro 
posed  a  residence  at  Sand-Hills ;  little  aware  what  a 
whirlwind  of  emotion  she  excited  in  her  husband's 
heart.  The  reasons  he  gave  for  rejecting  the  propo 
sition  appeared  satisfactory ;  but  she  could  not  quite 
understand  why  he  was  never  willing  that  their  after 
noon  drives  should  be  in  the  direction  of  those  plea 


THE    QUADROONS.  69 

sant  rural  residences,  which  she  had  heard  him  praise 
so  much.  One  day,  as  their  barouche  rolled  along  a 
winding-  road  that  skirted  Sand-Hills,  her  attention 
was  suddenly  attracted  by  two  figures  among  the  trees 
by  the  way-side  ;  and  touching  Edward's  arm,  she  ex 
claimed,  "  Do  look  at  that  beautiful  child !"  He  turned, 
arid  saw  Rosalie  and  Xarifa.  His  lips  quivered,  and 
his  face  became  deadly  pale.  His  young  wife  looked 
at  him  intently,  but  said  nothing.  There  were  points 
of  resemblance  in  the  child,  that  seemed  to  account 
for  his  sudden  emotion.  Suspicion  was  awakened, 
and  she  soon  learned  that  the  mother  of  that  lovely 
girl  bore  the  name  of  Rosalie  ;  with  this  information 
came  recollections  of  the  "  dear  Rosalie,"  murmured 
in  uneasy  slumbers.  From  gossiping  tongues  she 
soon  learned  more  than  she  wished  to  know.  She 
wept,  but  not  as  poor  Rosalie  had  done  ;  for  she  never 
had  loved,  and  been  beloved,  like  her,  and  her  nature 
was  more  proud.  Henceforth  a  change  came  over 
her  feelings  and  her  manners ;  and  Edward  had  no  fur 
ther  occasion  to  assume  a  tenderness  in  return  for  hers. 
Changed  as  he  was  by  ambition,  he  felt  the  wintry 
chill  of  her  polite  propriety,  and  sometimes  in  agony 
of  heart,  compared  it  with  the  gushing  love  of  her 
who  was  indeed  his  wife. 

But  these,  and  all  his  emotions,  were  a  sealed  book 
to  Rosalie,  of  which  she  could  only  guess  the  con 
tents.  With  remittances  for  her  and  her  child's  sup 
port,  there  sometimes  came  earnest  pleadings  that  she 
would  consent  to  see  him  again ;  but  these  she 
never  answered,  though  her  heart  yearned  to  do  so. 
She  pitied  his  fair  young  bride,  and  would  not  be 


70  THE    QUADROONS. 

tempted  to  bring  sorrow  into  their  household  by  any 
fault  of  hers.  Her  earnest  prayer  was  that  she  might 
never  know  of  her  existence.  She  had  not  looked  on 
Edward  since  she  watched  him  under  the  shadow  of 
the  magnolia,  until  his  barouche  passed  her  in  her 
rambles  some  months  after.  She  saw  the  deadly 
paleness  of  his  countenance,  and  had  he  dared  to  look 
back,  he  would  have  seen  her  tottering  with  faintness. 
Xarifa  brought  water  from  a  little  rivulet,  and  sprink 
led  her  face.  When  she  revived,  she  clasped  the  be 
loved  child  to  her  heart  with  a  vehemence  that  made 
her  scream.  Soothingly  she  kissed  away  her  fears, 
and  gazed  into  her  beautiful  eyes  with  a  deep,  deep 
sadness  of  expression,  which  Xarifa  never  forgot. 
Wild  were  the  thoughts  that  pressed  around  her  ach 
ing  heart,  and  almost  maddened  her  poor  brain  ; 
thoughts  which  had  almost  driven  her  to  suicide  the 
night  of  that  last  farewell.  For  her  child's  sake  she 
conquered  the  fierce  temptation  then ;  and  for  her 
sake,  she  struggled  with  it  now.  But  the  gloomy 
atmosphere  of  their  once  happy  home  overclouded  the 
morning  of  Xarifa's  life. 

"  She  from  her  mother  learnt  the  trick  of  grief, 
And  sighed  among  her  playthings." 

Rosalie  perceived  this  ;  and  it  gave  her  gentle  heart 
unutterable  pain.  At  last,  the  conflicts  of  her  spirit 
proved  too  strong  for  the  beautiful  frame  in  which  it 
dwelt.  About  a  year  after  Edward's  marriage,  she 
was  found  dead  in  her  bed,  one  bright  autumnal 
morning.  She  had  often  expressed  to  her  daughter 
a  wish  to  be  buried  under  a  spreading  oak,  that  sha- 


THE    QUADROONS.  71 

ded  a  rustic  garden-chair,  in  which  she  and  Edward 
had  spent  many  happy  evenings.  And  there  she  was 
buried  ;  with  a  small  white  cross  at  her  head,  twined 
with  the  cypress  vine.  Edward  came  to  the  funeral, 
and  wept  long,  very  long,  at  the  grave.  Hours  after 
midnight,  he  sat  in  the  recess-window,  with  Xarifa 
folded  to  his  heart.  The  poor  child  sobbed  herself  to 
sleep  on  his  bosom  ;  and  the  convicted  murderer  had 
small  reason  to  envy  that  wretched  man,  as  he  gazed 
on  the  lovely  countenance,  which  so  strongly  remind 
ed  him  of  his  early  and  his  only  love. 

From  that  time,  Xarifa  was  the  central  point  of  all 
his  warmest  affections.  He  hired  an  excellent  old 
negress  to  take  charge  of  the  cottage,  from  which  he 
promised  his  darling  child  that  she  should  never  be 
removed.  He  employed  a  music  master,  and  dancing 
master,  to  attend  upon  her  ;  and  a  week  never  passed 
without  a  visit  from  him,  and  a  present  of  books,  pic 
tures,  or  flowers.  To  hear  her  play  upon  the  harp, 
or  repeat  some  favourite  poem  in  her  mother's  earnest 
accents  and  melodious  tones,  or  to  see  her  pliant 
figure  float  in  the  garland-dance,  seemed  to  be  the 
highest  enjoyment  of  his  life.  Yet  was  the  pleasure 
mixed  with  bitter  thoughts.  What  would  be  the  des 
tiny  of  this  fascinating  young  creature,  so  radiant  with 
life  and  beauty  ?  She  belonged  to  a  proscribed  race  ; 
and  though  the  brown  colour  on  her  soft  cheek  was 
scarcely  deeper  than  the  sunny  side  of  a  golden  pear, 
yet  was  it  sufficient  to  exclude  her  from  virtuous  so 
ciety.  He  thought  of  Rosalie's  wish  to  carry  her  to 
France  :  and  he  would  have  fulfilled  it,  had  he  been 
unmarried.  As  it  was,  he  inwardly  resolved  to  make 


72  THE    QUADROONS. 

some  arrangement  to  effect  it  in  a  few  years,  even  if 
it  involved  separation  from  his  darling  child. 

But  alas  for  the  calculations  of  man !  From  the 
time  of  Rosalie's  death,  Edward  had  sought  relief  for 
his  wretched  feelings  in  the  free  use  of  wine.  Xarifa 
was  scarcely  fifteen,  when  her  father  was  found  dead 
by  the  road-side  ;  having  fallen  from  his  horse,  on  his 
way  to  visit  her.  He  left  no  will ;  but  his  wife,  with 
kindness  of  heart  worthy  of  a  happier  domestic  fate, 
expressed  a  decided  reluctance  to  change  any  of  the 
plans  he  had  made  for  the  beautiful  child  at  Sand- 
Hills. 

Xarifa  mourned  her  indulgent  father ;  but  not  as 
one  utterly  desolate.  True,  she  had  lived  "  like  a 
flower  deep  hid  in  rocky  cleft ;"  but  the  sunshine  of 
love  had  already  peeped  in  upon  her.  Her  teacher 
on  the  harp  was  a  handsome  -and  agreeable  young 
man  of  twenty,  the  only  son  of  an  English  widow. 
Perhaps  Edward  had  not  been  altogether  unmindful 
of  the  result,  when  he  first  invited  him  to  the  flowery 
cottage.  Certain  it  is,  he  had  more  than  once  thought 
what  a  pleasant  thing  it  would  be,  if  English  freedom 
from  prejudice  should  lead  him  to  offer  legal  protec 
tion  to  his  graceful  and  winning  child.  Being  thus 
encouraged,  rather  than  checked,  in  his  admiration, 
George  Elliot  could  not  be  otherwise  than  strongly 
attracted  toward  his  beautiful  pupil.  The  lonely  and 
unprotected  state  in  which  her  father's  death  left  her, 
deepened  this  feeling  into  tenderness.  And  lucky 
was  it  for  her  enthusiastic  and  affectionate  nature  ;  for 
she  could  not  live  without  an  atmosphere  of  love.  In 
her  innocence,  she  knew  nothing  of  the  dangers  in 


THE    QUADROONS.  73 

ft 

her  path  ;  and  she  trusted  George  with  an  undoubt- 
ing  simplicity,  that  rendered  her  sacred  to  his  noble 
and  generous  soul.  It  seemed  as  if  that  flower-em 
bosomed  nest  was  consecrated  by  the  Fates  to  Love. 
The  French  have  well  named  it  La  Belle  Passion  ; 
for  without  it  life  were  "  a  year  without  spring,  or  a 
spring  without  roses."  Except  the  loveliness  of  in 
fancy,  what  does  earth  offer  so  much  like  Heaven,  as 
the  happiness  of  two  young,  pure,  and  beautiful  be 
ings,  living  in  each  other's  hearts  ? 

Xarifa  inherited  her  mother's  poetic  and  impassion 
ed  temperament ;  and  to  her,  above  others,  the  first 
consciousness  of  these  sweet  emotions  was  like  a 
golden  sunrise  on  the  sleeping  flowers. 

"  Thus  stood  she  at  the  threshold  of  the  scene 
Of  busy  life.  *        *        *        * 

How  fair  it  lay  in  solemn  shade  and  sheen ! 
And  he  beside  her,  like  some  angel,  posted 
To  lead  her  out  of  childhood's  fairy  land, 
On  to  life's  glancing  summit,  hand  in  hand." 

Alas,  the  tempest  was  brooding  over  their  young 
heads.  Rosalie,  though  she  knew  it  not,  had  been 
the  daughter  of  a  slave,  whose  wealthy  master, 
though  he  remained  attached  to  her  to  the  end  of  her 
days,  yet  carelessly  omitted  to  have  papers  of  manu 
mission  recorded.  His  heirs  had  lately  failed,  under 
circumstances  which  greatly  exasperated  their  cre 
ditors  ;  and  in  an  unlucky  hour,  they  discovered  their 
claim  on  Angelique's  grand-child. 

The  gentle  girl,  happy  as  the  birds  in  spring-time, 
accustomed  to  the  fondest  indulgence,  surrounded  by 
all  the  refinements  of  life,  timid  as  a  fawn,  and  with. 
7 


74  THE    QUADROONS. 

a  soul  full  of  romance,  was  ruthlessly  seized  by  a 
sheriff,  and  placed  on  the  public  auction-stand  in  Sa 
vannah.  There  she  stood,  trembling,  blushing,  and 
weeping  ;  compelled  to  listen  to  the  grossest  language, 
and  shrinking  from  the  rude  hands  that  examined  the 
graceful  proportions  of  her  beautiful  frame.  "  Stop 
that !"  exclaimed  a  stern  voice.  "  I  bid  two  thousand 
dollars  for  her,  without  asking  any  of  their  d — d  ques 
tions."  The  speaker  was  probably  about  forty  years 
of  age,  with  handsome  features,  but  a  fierce  and  proud 
expression.  An  older  man,  who  stood  behind  him, 
bid  two  thousand  five  hundred.  The  first  bid  higher ; 
then  a  third,  a  dashing  young  man,  bid  three  thou 
sand  ;  and  thus  they  went  on,  with  the  keen  excite 
ment  of  gamblers,  until  the  first  speaker  obtained  the 
prize,  for  the  moderate  sum  of  five  thousand  dollars. 
And  where  was  George,  during  this  dreadful  scene  ? 
He  was  absent  on  a  visit  to  his  mother,  at  Mobile. 
But,  had  he  been  at  Sand-Hills,  he  could  not  have 
saved  his  beloved  from  the  wealthy  profligate,  who 
was  determined  to  obtain  her  at  any  price.  A  letter 
of  agonized  entreaty  from  her  brought  him  home  on 
the  wings  of  the  wind.  But  what  could  he  do  ?  How 
could  he  ever  obtain  a  sight  of  her,  locked  up  as  she 
was  in  the  princely  mansion  of  her  master  ?  At  last, 
by  bribing  one  of  the  slaves,  he  conveyed  a  letter  to 
her,  and  received  one  in  return.  As  yet,  her  pur 
chaser  treated  her  with  respectful  gentleness,  and 
sought  to  win  her  favour,  by  flattery  and  presents  ;  but 
she  dreaded  every  moment,  lest  the  scene  should 
change,  and  trembled  at  the  sound  of  every  footfall. 
A  plan  was  laid  for  escape.  The  slave  agreed  to 


THE    QUADROONS.  75 

ft 

drug  his  master's  wine  ;  a  ladder  of  ropes  was  pre 
pared,  and  a  swift  boat  was  in  readiness.  But  the 
slave,  to  obtain  a  double  reward,  was  treacherous. 
Xarifa  had  scarcely  given  an  answering  signal  to  the 
low  cautious  whistle  of  her  lover,  when  the  sharp 
sound  of  a  rifle  was  followed  by  a  deep  groan,  and  a 
heavy  fall  on  the  pavement  of  the  court-yard.  With 
frenzied  eagerness  she  swung  herself  down  by  the 
ladder  of  ropes, and,  by  the  glancing  light  of  lanthorns, 
saw  George,  bleeding  and  lifeless  at  her  feet.  One 
wild  shriek,  that  pierced  the  brains  of  those  who  heard 
it,  and  she  fell  senseless  by  his  side. 

For  many  days  she  had  a  confused  consciousness 
of  some  great  agony,  but  knew  not  where  she  was, 
or  by  whom  she  was  surrounded.  The  slow  recovery 
of  her  reason  settled  into  the  most  intense  melancholy, 
which  moved  the  compassion  even  of  her  cruel  pur 
chaser.  The  beautiful  eyes,  always  pensive  in  ex 
pression,  were  now  so  heart-piercing  in  their  sadness, 
that  he  could  not  endure  to  look  upon  them.  For 
some  months,  he  sought  to  win  her  smiles  by  lavish 
presents,  and  delicate  attentions.  He  bought  glitter 
ing  chains  of  gold,  and  costly  bands  of  pearl.  His 
victim  scarcely  glanced  at  them,  and  her  attendant 
slave  laid  them  away,  unheeded  and  forgotten.  He 
purchased  the  furniture  of  the  Cottage  at  Sand-Hills, 
and  one  morning  Xarifa  found  her  harp  at  the  bed 
side,  and  the  room  filled  with  her  own  books,  pictures, 
and  flowers.  She  gazed  upon  them  with  a  pang  un 
utterable,  and  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears  ;  but  she 
gave  her  master  no  thanks,  and  her  gloom  deepened. 

At   last   his  patience   was   exhausted.     He  grew 


76  THE    QUADROONS. 

weary  of  her  obstinacy,  as  he  was  pleased  to  term  it ; 
and  threats  took  the  place  of  persuasion. 

#==*##:*•## 

In  a  few  months  more,  poor  Xarifa  was  a  raving 
maniac.  That  pure  temple  was  desecrated ;  that 
loving  heart  was  broken ;  and  that  beautiful  head 
fractured  against  the  wall  in  the  frenzy  of  despair. 
Her  master  cursed  the  useless  expense  she  had  cost 
him ;  the  slaves  buried  her ;  and  no  one  wept  at  the 
grave  of  her  who  had  been  so  carefully  cherished,  and 
so  tenderly  beloved. 


THE  IRISH  HEART. 

A  True  Story. 

IT  was  a  pleasant  sight  to  look  on  James  and  Nora 
in  their  early  childhood  ;  their  cheeks  were  so  rosy, 
their  hair  so  sunny,  and  their  clear  blue  eyes  so  mild 
and  innocent.  They  were  the  youngest  of  a  cabin- 
full  of  children ;  and  though  they  did  now  and  then 
get  a  cuff  from  the  elder  ones,  with  the  hasty  words, 
"  Get  out  of  the  way,  you  spalpeen,"  they  were  the 
pets  and  playmates  of  them  all.  Their  love  for  each 
other  was  extreme ;  and  though  James,  early  in  his 
boyhood,  evinced  the  Irish  predilection  for  giving 
knocks,  he  was  never  known  to  raise  his  hand  against 
his  little  sister.  When  she  could  first  toddle  about,  it 
was  his  delight  to  gather  the  Maygowans  that  grew 
about  the  well,  and  put  them  in  Nora's  curly  hair ; 
and  then  he  would  sit  before  her,  with  his  little  hands 
resting  on  his  knees,  contemplating  her  with  the  great 
est  satisfaction.  When  they  were  older,  they  might 
be  seen  weeding  the  "  pathies  "*  side  by  side,  or  hand 
in  hand  gathering  berries  among  the  hawthorn  bush 
es.  .  The  greatest  difference  between  them  seemed  to 
be,  that  James  was  all  fun  and  frolic,  while  Nora  was 
ever  serious  and  earnest. 

When  the  young  maiden  was  milking  the  cows,  her 

*  Potatoes. 

7* 


78  THE    IRISH    HEART. 

Soft  low  voice  might  usually  be  heard,  warbling  some 
of  the  mournful  melodies  of  Ireland.  But  plaintive 
tones  were  rarely  heard  from  James.  He  came  home 
from  his  daily  labour  whistling  like  a  black-bird, 
mocking  the  cuckoo,  or  singing,  at  the  top  of  his  clear 
ringing  voice,  the  merry  jingle  of  St.  Patrick's  Day  in 
the  Morning,  or  the  facetious  air  of  Paudeen  O'Raf- 
ferty.  At  dancing,  too,  he  excelled  all  the  lads  of  the 
neighbourhood.  He  could  dance  Irish  jigs,  three-part 
reel,  four-part  reel,  or  rowly-powly,  to  the  tune  of 
The  Dusty  Miller,  or  The  Rakes  of  Bally-shanny, 
with  such  a  quick  ear  for  the  music,  that  all  the  lass 
ies  declared  they  could  "  see  the  tune  upon  his  feet." 
He  was  a  comely  lad,  too,  and  at  weddings  and 
Christmas  carousals,  none  of  the  rustic  dandies  looked 
more  genteel  than  he,  with  his  buff-coloured  vest,  his 
knot  of  ribbons  at  each  knee,  and  his  caubeen^  set 
jauntily  on  one  side  of  his  head.  Being  good-natur 
ed  and  mirthful,  he  was  a  great  favourite  at  wakes 
and  dances,  and  festivities  of  all  sorts ;  and  he  might 
have  been  in  danger  of  becoming  dissipated,  had  it 
not  been  for  the  happy  consciousness  of  belonging  to 
an  honest  industrious  family,  and  being  the  pride  and 
darling  of  Nora's  heart. 

Notwithstanding  the  natural  gayety  of  his  disposi 
tion,  he  had  a  spirit  of  enterprise,  and  a  love  of  earn 
ing  money.  This  tendency  led  him  early  to  think  of 
emigrating  to  America,  the  Eldorado  of  Irish  imagin 
ation.  Nora  resisted  the  first  suggestion  with  many 
tears.  But  James  drew  fine  pictures  of  a  farm  of  his 
own  in  the  new  country,  and  cows  and  horses,  and  a 
•Cap, 


THE    IRISH    HEART.  79 

pleasant  jaunting  car;  and  in  the  farm-house  and  the 
jaunting  car,  Nora  was  ever  by  his  side ;  for  with  the 
very  first  guineas  that  crossed  his  hand,  sure  he  would 
send  for  her.  Tho  affectionate  sister,  accustomed  to 
sympathise  with  all  his  plans,  soon  began  to  help  him 
to  build  his  castles  in  America ;  and  every  penny  that 
she  could  earn  at  her  spinning-wheel  was  laid  away 
for  passage  money.  But  when  the  time  actually  ar 
rived  for  him  to  go  to  Dublin,  it  was  a  day  of  sorrow. 
All  the  married  sisters,  with  their  little  ones,  and 
neighbours  fr.om  far  and  near,  came  to  bid  him  fare 
well,  and  give  their  parting  blessing.  The  good 
mother  was  busy  to  the  last,  storing  away  some  little 
comfort  in  his  sea-box.  Nora,  with  the  big  tears  in 
her  eyes,  repeated,  for  the  thousandth  time,  "  And 
Jimmy,  mavourneen,*  if  you  grow  grand  there  in  the 
new  country,  you'll  not  be  after  forgetting  me  ?  You 
will  send  for  your  own  Nora  soon  ?" 

"  Forget  you  /"  exclaimed  James,  while  he  pressed 
her  warmly  to  his  bosom  :  "  When  the  blessed  sun 
forgets  to  rise  over  the  green  earth,  maybe  I'll  forget 
you,  mavourneen  dheelisk."^ 

Amid  oft  repeated  words  of  love  and  blessing,  he 
parted  from  them.  Their  mutual  sorrow  was  a  little 
softened  by  distant  visions  of  a  final  reunion  of  them 
all  in  America.  But  there  was  a  fearful  uncertainty 
about  this.  The  big  sea  might  swallow  him  up,  he 
might  sicken  and  die  among  strangers,  or  bad  exam 
ples  might  lead  him  into  evil  paths  worse  than  death. 

To  this  last  suggestion,  made  by  an  elder  sister, 
Nora  replied  with  indignant  earnestness.  "  Led  into 

•Darling.  f  Sweet  darling. 


80  THE    IRISH    HEART. 

evil  coorses,  indade  !"  she  exclaimed  ;  "  Shame  be  on 
you  for  spaking  that  same  !  and  he  the  dacentest  and 
best  behaved  boy  in  all  the  county  Longford.  You 
don't  know  the  heart  of  him,  as  I  do,  or  you'd  never 
be  after  spaking  of  him  in  that  fashion.  It's  a  shame 
on  you,  and  indade  it  is.  But  och,  wurrah  dheelish,* 
let  him  not  sicken  and  die  there  in  the  strange  coun 
try,  and  the  sister  not  there  to  do  for  him !"  And, 
overcome  by  the  picture  her  own  imagination  had 
drawn,  she  burst  into  a  passionate  flood  of  tears. 

In  a  few  weeks,  came  a  brief  letter  from  James, 
written  on  board  the  ship  in  which  he  sailed  from  Dub 
lin.  About  seven  months  later,  came  a  letter,  dated 
New  York,  saying  he  had  obtained  work  at  good 
wages,  and,  by  God's  blessing,  should  soon  be  enabled 
to  send  for  his  dear  sister.  He  added  a  hint  that  one 
of  these  days,  when  he  had  a  house  of  his  own,  per 
haps  the  father  and  mother  would  be  after  coming 
over.  Proud  were  they  in  the  Irish  cabin,  when  this 
letter  was  read  aloud  to  all  who  came  to  inquire  after 
the  young  emigrant.  All  his  old  cronies  answered, 
"  Throth,  and  he'd  do  well  anywhere.  He  was  al 
ways  a  dacent,  clane,  spirited  boy,  as  there  was  widin 
a  great  ways  of  him.  Divil  a  man  in  the  ten  parishes 
could  dance  the  Baltihorum  jig  wid  him,  any  how." 

Time  passed  on,  and  no  other  letter  came  from 
James.  Month  after  month,  poor  Nora  watched  with 
feverish  anxiety  to  catch  sight  of  her  father  when  he 
returned  from  the  distant  post-office  ;  for  he  promised, 
if  he  found  a  letter,  to  wave  his  hand  high  above  his 
head,  as  soon  as  he  came  to  the  top  of  the  hill  front- 

*  Sweet  Virgin. 


THE    IRISH   HEART.  81 

ing  the  house.  But  no  letter  came ;  and  at  last  Nora 
fully  believed  that  her  darling  brother  was  dead. 
After  writing  again  and  again,  and  receiving  no  an 
swer,  she  at  last  wrote  to  the  son  of  a  neighbour, 
who  had  emigrated  to  America,  and  begged  of  him, 
for  the  love  of  heaven,  to  ascertain  whether  Jarnes 
was  dead  or  alive,  and  send  them  word  as  soon  as 
possible.  The  Irishman  to  whom  this  urgent  epistle 
was  addressed,  was  at  work  on  a  distant  rail-road, 
and  had  no  fixed  place  of  residence ;  and  so  it  hap 
pened  that  Nora  received  no  answer  to  her  anxious 
inquiries,  for  more  than  a  year  and  a  half  after  they 
were  written.  At  last,  there  came  a  crumpled  square 
of  soiled  paper,  containing  these  words  : 

"  Dear  Frinds : — Black  and  hevy  is  my  hart  for 
the  news  I  have  to  tell  you.  James  is  in  prison,  con- 
carnin  a  bit  of  paper,  that  he  passed  for  money. 
Sorra  a  one  of  the  nabors  but  will  be  lettin  down  the 
tears,  when  they  hear  o'  the  same.  I  don't  know  the 
rights  of  the  case  ;  but  I  will  never  believe  he  was  a 
boy  to  disgrace  an  honest  family.  Perhaps  some 
other  man's  sin  is  upon  him.  It  may  be  some  com 
fort  to  you  to  know  that  his  time  will  be  out  in  a  year 
and  a  half,  any  how.  I  have  not  seen  James  sense  I 
come  to  Ameriky ;  but  I  heern  tell  of  what  I  have 
writ.  The  blessed  Mother  of  Heaven  keep  your  harts 
from  sinkin  down  with  this  hevy  sorrow.  Your 
frind  and  nabor,  MIKE  MURPHY. " 

Deep  indeed  was  the  grief  in  that  honest  family, 
when  these  sad  tidings  were  read.  Poor  Nora  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands,  and  sobbed  aloud.  The  old 


82  THE    IRISH   HEART. 

mother  rocked  violently  to  and  fro,  with  her  apron  at 
her  eyes  ;  and  the  father,  though  he  tried  hard  to  con 
ceal  his  emotion,  could  not  restrain  the  big  tears  from 
rolling  down  his  weather-beaten  face.  "  Och,  wo  is 
the  day,"  said  he,  "  that  ever  we  let  him  go  from  us. 
Such  a  dacent  lad,  and  belonging  to  a  family  that 
never  did  a  dishonest  action.  And  sure  all  hearts 
were  upon  him,  and  we  all  so  proud  out  of  him." 

"  Father,"  said  the  weeping  Nora,  "  I  know  the 
heart  of  him  better  nor  any  of  you  does ;  and  I  know 
he  never  had  intintion  to  do  anything  that  would  bring 
to  the  blush  the  mother  that  bore  him,  and  the  sister 
that  slept  in  his  arms,  when  we  were  both  weeny 
things.  I'll  go  to  Ameriky,  and  find  out  all  about  it, 
and  write  you  word." 

"  You  go  to  Ameriky !"  exclaimed  her  mother. 
"  Sure  you're  crazed  with  the  big  grief  that's  upon 
you,  coleen  macree,*  or  you'd  niver  spake  thim 
words." 

"  And  wouldn't  he  follow  me  to  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
if  the  black  trouble  was  on  me  ?"  replied  Nora,  with 
passionate  earnestness.  "  There  was  always  kind 
ness  in  him  for  all  human  crathurs ;  but  he  loved  me 
better  nor  all  the  world.  Never  a  one  had  a  bad  word 
agin  him,  but  nobody  knew  the  heart  of  him  as  I  did. 
Proud  was  I  out  of  him,  and  lonesome  is  my  heart 
widout  him.  And  is  it  I  will  lave  him  alone  wid 
his  trouble  ?  Troth,  not  if  there  was  ten  oceans 
atween  us." 

This  vehemence  subsided  after  awhile,  and  they 
talked  more  calmly  of  how  they  should  hide  their 
*  Pet  of  my  heart. 


THE    IRISH    HEART.  83 

disgrace  from  the  neighbourhood.  That  their  hearts 
were  sad  they  could  not  conceal.  Day  after  day,  their 
frugal  meals  were  removed  almost  untasted,  and  every 
one  stepped  about  silently,  as  after  a  funeral.  The 
very  cows  came  slowly  and  disconsolately,  as  if  they 
heard  grief  in  the  voice  of  their  young  mistress,  when 
she  called  them  to  be  milked.  And  the  good  old 
mother  no  longer  crooned  at  her  spinning  wheel  the 
song  she  had  sung  over  the  cradle  of  her  darling  boy. 
Nora  at  first  persisted  in  her  plan  of  crossing  the  At 
lantic  ;  but  her  father  forbade  it,  and  she  said  no  more. 
But  her  heart  grew  more  and  more  impatient.  She 
spoke  less  and  less  of  James,  but  she  sighed  heavily 
at  her  work,  and  her  eyes  were  often  red  with  weep 
ing.  At  last,  she  resolved  to  depart  unknown  to  any 
one.  She  rose  stealthily  at  midnight,  tied  up  a  small 
bundle  of  clothing,  placed  a  little  bag  of  money  in  her 
bosom,  paused  and  gazed  lovingly  on  her  sleeping 
parents,  hastily  brushed  away  the  gathering  tears,  and 
slept  out  into  the  moonlight.  She  stood  for  a  few  mo 
ments  and  gazed  on  the  old  familiar  hills  and  fields, 
on  the  potato  patch,  where  she  and  James  had  work 
ed  together  many  a  day,  on  the  old  well,  by  the  side 
of  which  the  Maygowans  grew,  and  on  the  clear 
white  cabin,  where  the  dear  old  ones  slept.  She  pass 
ed  into  the  little  shed,  that  served  as  a  stable  for  the 
animals,  and  threw  her  arms  about  the  donkey's  neck, 
and  kissed  the  cow,  that  knew  her  voice  as  well  as 
her  own  mother  did.  She  came  forth  weeping,  and 
gazed  on  the  old  homestead,  as  she  would  gaze  on  the 
face  of  a  dying  friend.  The  clustering  memories 
were  too  much  for  her  loving  heart.  Dropping  on  her 


84  THE    IRISH    HEART. 

knees,  she  prayed,  in  agony  of  sorrow :  "  If  it  be  a 
sin  to  go  away  from  the  good  old  father  and  mother, 
perhaps  niver  to  see  them  agin,  till  the  judgment  day, 
thou  oh  !  Father  in  heaven,  wilt  forgive  me  ;  for  thou 
seest  I  can  not  lave  him  alone  wid  his  great  trouble." 

Then  crossing  herself,  and  looking  toward  the  be 
loved  home  of  her  childhood,  she  said,  in  a  stifled 
voice,  "  The  Mother  of  Glory  be  wid  ye,  and  bless 
and  keep  ye  all." 

Half  blinded  with  tears,  she  wended  her  way  over 
the  moonlighted  hills,  and  when  her  favourite  cow 
called  as  usual  for  her  milking  pail,  in  the  first  blush 
of  the  morning,  she  was  already  far  on  her  way  to 
Dublin. 

•?(*  *  "R"  yf£  T?  TT  Tt-  "A* 

And  had  James  been  criminal  ?  In  the  eye  of  the 
law  he  had  been  ;  but  his  sister  was  right,  when  she 
said  he  had  no  intention  to  do  a  wicked  thing.  Not 
long  after  his  arrival  in  America,  he  was  one  day 
walking  along  the  street,  in  a  respectable  suit  of 
Sunday  clothes,  when  a  stranger  came  up,  and  enter 
ed  into  conversation  with  him.  After  asking  some 
indifferent  questions,  he  inquired  what  his  coat  cost 

"  Sixteen  dollars,"  was  the  answer. 

"  I  will  give  you  twenty  for  it,"  said  the  stranger  ; 
"  for  I  am  going  away  in  a  hurry,  and  have  no  time 
to  get  one  made." 

James  was  as  unsuspecting  as  a  child.  He  thought 
this  was  an  excellent  opportunity  to  make  four  dollars, 
to  send  to  his  darling  sister ;  so  he  readily  agreed  to 
the  bargain. 

"  I  want  a  watch,  too,"  said  the  stranger ;   "  but 


THE    IRISH    HEART. 


perhaps  you  would  not  be  willing  to  sell  yours  for 
ten  dollars  ?" 

James  frankly  confessed  that  it  was  two  dollars 
more  than  he  gave  for  it,  and  very  willingly  consent 
ed  to  the  transfer.  Some  weeks  after,  when  he  at 
tempted  to  pass  the  money  the  stranger  had  given 
him,  he  found,  to  his  dismay,  that  it  was  counterfeit. 
After  brooding  over  his  disappointment  for  some  time, 
he  came  to  a  conclusion  at  which  better  educated  men 
than  himself  have  sometimes  arrived.  He  thought  to 
himself — "  It  is  hard  for  a  poor  man  to  lose  so  much, 
by  no  fault  of  his  own.  Since  it  was  put  off  upon 
me,  I  will  just  put  it  off  upon  somebody  else.  May 
be  it  will  keep  going  the  rounds,  or  somebody  will 
lose  it  that  can  better  afford  it  than  I  can." 

It  certainly  was  a  wrong  conclusion  ;  but  it  was  a 
bewilderment  of  the  reasoning  powers  in  the  mind  of 
an  ignorant  man,  and  did  not  involve  wickedness  of 
intention.  He  passed  the  money,  and  was  soon  after 
arrested  for  forgery.  He  told  his  story  plainly  ;  but, 
as  he  admitted  that  he  knew  the  money  was  counter 
feit  when  he  passed  it,  the  legal  construction  of  his 
crime  was  forgery  in  the  second  degree.  He  had 
passed  three  bills,  and  had  the  penalty  of  the  law 
been  enforced  with  its  utmost  rigour,  he  might  have 
been  sentenced  to  the  state-prison  for  fifteen  years ; 
but  appearances  were  so  much  in  his  favour,  that  the 
court  sentenced  him  but  for  five  years. 

Five  years  taken  away  from  the  young  life  of  a 
labouring  man,  spent  in  silent  toil,  in  shame  and  sor 
row  for  a  blighted  reputation,  was,  indeed,  a  heavy 
penalty  for  confused  notions  of  right  and  wrong,  con- 
8 


86  THE    IRISH   HEART. 

cerning  bits  of  paper,  stamped  with  a  nominal  value. 
But  law,  in  its  wisest  and  kindest  administration,  can 
not  always  make  nice  distinctions  between  thoughtless 
errors  and  wilful  crimes. 

It  is  probable  James  never  felt  the  degree  of  com 
punction,  that  it  is  supposed  every  convict  ought  to 
feel ;  for  the  idea  was  ever  with  him,  that  if  he  had 
sinned  against  government,  he  did  not  mean  to  sin 
against  God.  That  he  had  disgraced  himself,  he 
knew  full  well  and  felt  keenly.  The  thoughts  of 
what  Nora  and  his  good  mother  would  suffer,  if  they 
could  see  him  driven  to  hard  labour  with  thieves  and 
murderers,  tore  his  soul  with  anguish.  He  could  not 
bring  his  mind  to  write  to  them,  or  send  them  any  ti 
dings  of  his  fate.  He  thought  it  was  better  that  they 
should  suppose  him  dead,  than  know  of  his  disgrace. 
Thus  the  weary  months  passed  silently  away.  The 
laugh  of  his  eye  and  the  bound  of  his  step  were  gone. 
Day  by  day  he  grew  more  disconsolate  and  stupid. 

He  had  been  in  prison  about  four  years,  when  one 
of  the  keepers  told  him  that  a  young  woman  had 
come  to  visit  him,  and  he  had  received  permission  to 
see  her.  He  followed  silently,  wondering  who  it 
could  be  ;  and  a  moment  after,  he  was  locked  in  his 
sister's  arms.  For  some  time,  nothing  but  sobs  were 
audible.  They  looked  mournfully  in  each  other's  fa 
ces  ;  then  fell  on  each  other's  necks,  and  wept  again. 

"  And  so  you  know  me,  mavourneen  ?"  said  Nora, 
at  last,  trying  to  smile  through  her  tears. 

"  Know  you  !"  he  replied,  folding  her  more  closely 
to  his  breast.  "A  cushla  machree,*  and  wouldn't  I 

*  Pulse  of  my  heart. 


fHE    IRISH    HEART.  87 

know  your  shadow  on  the  wall,  in  the  darkest  cellar 
they  could  put  me  in  ?  But  who  came  wid  you,  ma.- 
vourneen  ?" 

"  Troth,  and  it  was  alone  I  come.  I  run  away  in 
the  night.  I  hope  it  wasn't  wrong  to  lave  the  good 
father  and  mother,  when  they  had  spoke  agin  my 
coming.  I  wouldn't  like  to  do  any  thing  displasing 
to  God.  But  Jimmy,  mackree,  my  heart  was  breakin' 
widout  you  ;  and  I  couldn't  lave  you  alone  wid  your 
great  trouble.  Sure  it's  long  ago  I  would  have  been 
wid  you,  if  you  had  let  us  know  of  your  misfortin." 

The  poor  fellow  wept  afresh  at  these  assurances  of 
his  sister's  affection.  When  he  was  calmer,  he  told 
her  circumstantially  how  the  great  trouble  had  come 
upon  him. 

"  God  be  praised  for  the  words  you  spake,"  replied 
Nora.  "  It  will  take  a  load  off  of  hearts  at  home, 
when  they  hear  of  the  same.  I  always  said  there  was 
no  sin  in  your  heart ;  for  who  should  know  that  better 
nor  me,  who  slept  in  the  same  cradle  ?  A  blessing  be 
wid  you,  mavourneen.  The  music's  in  my  heart  to 
hear  the  sound  of  your  voice  agin.  And  proud  will  I 
be  out  of  you,  as  I  used  to  be  when  all  eyes,  young 
and  old,  brightened  on  you  in  warm  old  Ireland." 

"  But  Nora,  dheelish,  the  disgrace  is  on  me,"  said 
the  young  man,  looking  down.  "  They  will  say  I 
am  a  convict." 

"  Sorra  a  fig  I  care  for  what  they  say,"  replied  the 
warm-hearted  girl.  "  Don't  I  know  the  heart  that  is 
in  you  ?  Didn't  I  say  there  was  no  sin  in  your  intin- 
tions,  though  you  was  shut  up  in  this  bad  place  ? 
And  if  there  had  been — if  the  black  murder  had 
been  widin  you,  is  it  Nora  would  be  after  laving  you 


THE    IRISH   HEART. 

alone  wid  your  sin  and  your  shame  ?  Troth,  I  would 
weary  the  saints  in  heaven  wid  prayers,  till  they 
made  you  a  better  man,  for  the  sake  of  your  sister's 
love.  But  there  was  no  sin  in  your  heart ;  and  proud 
I  am  out  of  you,  a  suillish  machree;*  and  bad  luck  to 
the  rogue  that  brought  you  into  this  trouble." 

The  keeper  reminded  them  that  the  time  allowed 
for  their  interview  was  nearly  spent. 

"  You  will  come  agin  ?"  said  James,  imploringly. 
"  You  will  come  to  me  agin,  acushla  machree?" 

"  I  had  to  beg  hard  to  see  you  once,"  replied  Nora. 
"  They  said  it  was  agin  the  rules.  But  when  I  told 
them  how  I  come  alone  across  the  big  ocean  to  be  wid 
you  in  your  trouble,  because  I  knew  the  heart  that 
•was  in  you,  they  said  I  might  come  in.  It  is  a  heavy 
sorrow  that  we  cannot  spake  together.  But  it  will  be 
a  comfort,  mavourneen,  to  be  where  I  can  look  on 
these  stone  walls.  The  kind  man  here  they  call  the 
chaplain  says  I  may  stay  wid  his  family  ;  and  sure 
not  an  hour  in  the  day  but  I  will  think  of  you,  a  vil- 
lishA  The  same  moon  shines  here,  that  used  to 
shine  on  us  when  we  had  our  May  dances  on  the 
green,  in  dear  old  Ireland ;  and  when  they  let  you 
get  a  glimpse  of  her  bright  face,  you  can  think  maybe 
Nora  is  looking  up  at  it,  as  she  used  to  do  Avhen  she 
was  your  own  weeny  darlint,  wid  the  shamrock  and 
gowan  in  her  hair.  I  will  work,  and  lay  by  money 
for  you ;  and  when  you  come  out  of  this  bad  place, 
it's  Nora  will  stand  by  you  ;  and  proud  will  I  be  out 
of  you,  a  suillish  machree" 

The  young  man  smiled  as  he  had  not  smiled  for 

*  Light  of  my  heart.  t  Dear. 


THE    IRISH    HEART.  89 

years.  He  kissed  his  sister  tenderly,  as  he  answered, 
"  Ah,  Nora,  mavourneen,  it's  yourself  that  was  always 
too  good  to  me.  God's  blessing  be  wid  you,  acushla 
mackree.  It  will  go  hard  wid  me,  but  I  will  make 
some  return  for  such  goodness." 

"  And  sure  it's  no  goodness  at  all,"  replied  Nora. 
"  Is  it  yourself  would  be  after  laving  me  alone,  and 
I  in  the  great  trouble  ?  Hut,  tut,  Jimmy,  avick. 
Sure  it's  nothing  at  all.  Any  body  would  do  it. 
You're  as  dacent  and  clever  a  lad  as  iver  you  was. 
Sing  that  to  your  heart,  mavourneen.  It's  Nora  will 
stand  by  you,  all  the  world  over."  %s< 

With  a  smile  that  she  meant  should  be  a  brave  one, 
but  with  eyes  streaming  with  tears,  she  bade  her  be 
loved  brother  farewell.  He  embraced  her  with  vehe 
ment  tenderness,  and,  with  a  deep  sigh,  returned  to 
his  silent  labour.  But  the  weight  was  taken  off  his 
heart,  and  his  step  was  lighter  ;  for 

"Hope's  sunshine  lingered  on  his  prison  wall, 
And  Love  looked  in  upon  his  solitude." 

Nora  remained  with  the  kind-hearted  chaplain,  ev 
er  watching  the  gloomy  walls  of  Sing  Sing.  When 
her  brother's  term  expired,  she  was  at  the  prison  door 
to  welcome  him,  and  lead  him  forth  into  the  blessed 
sunshine  and  free  air.  The  chaplain  received  them 
into  his  house,  cheered  and  strengthened  their  hearts 
by  kind  words  and  judicious  counsel,  and  sent  them 
to  the  office  of  the  Prison  Association,  No.  13  Pine- 
street,  New-York.  As  James  brought  certificates  of 
good  conduct  while  in  prison,  the  Association  lent 
him  tools,  to  be  paid  for  if  he  should  ever  be  able  to 
do  so,  and  recommended  him  to  a  worthy  mechanic. 
8* 


90  THE    IRISH    HEART. 

At  this  place  he  would  have  remained,  had  not  his 
employer  needed  a  journeyman  thoroughly  versed  in 
his  trade.  It  is  the  policy  at  Sing  Sing  not  to  allow 
the  prisoners  to  learn  all  branches  of  any  business, 
lest  they  should  come  into  competition  with  mechanics 
out  of  the  prison.  What  James  had  been  accustomed 
to  do,  he  did  with  great  industry  and  expertness  ;  but 
he  could  not  do  all  his  employer  required,  and  was 
therefore  kindly  and  honourably  dismissed. 

Had  he  been  dishonest,  he  might  have  gone  off  with 
the  tools  ;  but  he  went  to  the  office  of  the  Association, 
to  ask  whether  they  were  willing  he  should  keep 
them  till  he  could  obtain  work  elsewhere,  and  earn 
enough  to  pay  for  them.  They  consented  very  cor 
dially,  and  told  him  to  remember  them  as  friends  in 
need,  so  long  as  he  behaved  well.  His  sister  was 
with  him,  like  his  shadow,  and  their  earnest  expres 
sions  of  gratitude  were  truly  affecting. 

Her  good-natured  honest  countenance,  and  indus 
trious  habits,  attracted  the  attention  of  a  thriving 
young  farmer,  who  succeeded  in  obtaining  the  treas 
ure  of  her  warm  and  generous  heart.  She  who  made 
so  good  a  sister,  can  scarcely  fail  to  be  an  excellent 
wife.  James  continues  to  do  well,  and  loves  her  with 
superabounding  love.  The  blessing  of  our  Father  be 
with  them  !  They  are  two  of  the  kindest  hearts,  and 
most  transparent  souls,  among  that  reverent,  loving, 
confiding,  and  impulsive  people,  who,  in  their  virtues 
and  their  defects,  deserve  to  be  called  the  little  chil 
dren  of  the  nations. 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  APOSTLE  JOHN. 

Suggested  by  a  well  known  Anecdote  in  the  Ecclesiastical 
History  of  Eusebius. 

MORNING  rose  bright  and  clear  on  Ephesus,  that 
beautiful  city  of  the  Ancients,  which  Pliny  calls  the 
Light  of  Asia.  From  the  jutting  points  of  lofty  rocks 
on  the  mountain  sides  rose  the  massive  and  majestic 
pillars  of  Doric  temples,  embowered  in  verdant  foliage, 
while  the  lighter  and  more  elegant  Ionian  shafts  shot 
up  from  the  plain  below,  like  graceful  architectural 
flowers.  Brilliant  sunbeams  streamed  tremulously 
through  the  porticos,  and  reflected  themselves  in  gold 
en  gleams  on  a  forest  of  marble  columns.  The  airy 
summits  of  the  mountains  smiled  in  serene  glory  be 
neath  the  lucid  firmament.  Troops  of  graceful  swans 
and  beautiful  white  sea-doves  floated  on  the  sparkling 
waters  of  the  Cayster,  running  joyfully  into  the  bright 
bosom  of  the  jEgean.  Maidens  bearing  Etruscan 
vases  on  their  heads,  went  and  came  from  the  foun 
tains,  gliding  majestically  erect  among  the  crowd  of 
merchants,  or  the  long  processions  of  priests  and  wor 
shippers.  Here  and  there,  a  Roman  soldier  rode 
through  the  busy  streets,  his  steel  trappings  and  glitter 
ing  harness  shining  in  the  distance  like  points  of  fire. 

Strong  and  deep  rolled  the  sonorous  chant  of  bass 
voices  from  a  Jewish  synagogue,  mingled  with  the 


92  A    LEGEND    OF    THE    APOSTLE    JOHN. 

sound  of  sackbut  and  harp.  From  the  magnificent 
temple  of  Diana  came  up  a  plaintive  strain,  a  modula 
ted  murmur,  as  of  distant  waves  rippling  to  music ; 
slowly  swelling,  slowly  falling  away,  floating  off  in 
sweet  echoes  among  the  hills.  There  was  a  farewell 
sadness  in  this  choral  hymn,  as  of  a  religion  passing 
away  in  its  calm  intellectual  beauty,  conscious  that  it 
had  no  adequate  voice  for  the  yearnings  and  aspira 
tions  of  the  human  heart. 

And  then,  as  ever,  when  the  want  of  a  more  spir 
itual  faith  began  to  be  widely  felt,  it  was  already  in 
existence.  From  the  solemn  shadows  of  Judaism, 
the  mild  form  of  Christianity  had  risen,  and  the  Gre 
cian  mind  was  already  preparing  to  encircle  it  with 
the  mystic  halo  of  a  golden  Platonism. 

In  the  court  of  an  artificer  of  Ephesus,  there  met 
that  day  an  assembly  of  converts  to  the  new  and  de 
spised  faith.  Under  the  shadow  of  an  awning,  made 
by  Paul  the  tent-maker,  they  talked  together  of  Jesus, 
the  holiness  of  his  example,  and  the  wide  significance 
of  his  doctrines.  It  was  a  season  of  peculiar  interest 
to  the  infant  Church  ;  for  John,  the  disciple  whom. 
Jesus  especially  loved,  had  just  returned  from  banish 
ment.  He  was  a  man  of  ninety  years,  with  hair  and 
beard  of  silvery  whiteness.  His  serious  countenance 
beamed  with  resignation  and  love  ;  but  his  high  fore- 
rhead,  earnest  eye,  and  energetic  motions,  showed 
plainly  enough  that  his  was  not  the  serenity  of  a  lan 
guid  and  quiet  temperament.  Through  conflict  he 
had  attained  humility  and  peace.  His  voice  told  the 
same  story  ;  for  it  was  strong,  deep,  and  restrained, 
though  sweetly  toned,  and  full  of  musical  inflections. 


A   LEGEND    OF    THE    APOSTLE    JOHN.  93 

His  once  erect  figure  was  slightly  bent ;  the  effect  of 
digging  in  the  mines  of  Patmos.  Many  eyes  were 
moistened  with  tears,  as  they  gazed  on  his  beloved 
and  venerated  countenance  ;  for  it  brought  sad  memo 
ries  of  the  hardships  he  had  endured  by  the  cruel  or 
ders  of  Domitian.  He  made  no  allusion  to  priva 
tions  or  sufferings,  but  spoke  only  of  the  heavenly 
visions,  and  the  indwelling  glory,  that  had  been  with 
him  in  the  Isle  of  Patmos  ;  how  in  the  darkest  mines 
the  heavens  opened,  and  in  the  narrowest  prisons 
angels  came  and  moved  the  stone  walls  afar  off,  so 
that  he  saw  them  not ;  and  this  he  urged  as  proof  how 
little  power  man  has  over  a  spirit  at  peace  with  God. 
Of  those  who  hung  upon  his  words,  the  emotions 
of  two  were  especially  visible.  One  was  a  young 
maiden,  who  sat  on  a  divan  at  his  feet,  and  leaning  on 
one  arm  gazed  upwards  in  his  face.  She  was  closely 
veiled,  but  the  outlines  of  her  figure,  imperfectly  re 
vealed  through  the  ample  folds  of  her  rich  dress,  gave 
indication  of  personal  grace.  As  she  bent  earnestly 
forward,  her  drapery  had  fallen  back,  and  showed  an 
arm  of  exquisite  proportions,  its  clear  soft  olive  tint 
beautifully  contrasted  by  a  broad  bracelet  of  gold. 
She  reclined  partially  on  the  shoulder  of  her  old 
nurse,  who  was  seated  behind  her  on  the  same  divan. 
Both  ran  great  risk  in  visiting  that  Christian  assem 
bly;  for  Miriam's  father  was  the  wealthiest  Jew  in 
Ephesus  ;  his  was  the  highest  place  in  the  synagogue, 
and  few  of  her  thousand  merchants  could  count  so 
many  ships.  Narrow  and  bigoted  in  his  own  adhe 
rence  to  forms  and  traditions,  he  was  the  last  man  on 
earth  to  permit  a  woman  to  question  them.  But  the 


94  A   LEGEND    OF    THE     APOSTLE    JOHN. 

earnest  and  truthful  soul  of  his  daughter  early  felt 
how  little  life  there  was  in  his  solemn  observances. 
Her  nu'rse,  a  Galilean  by  birth,  had  told  marvellous 
stories  of  the  holy  Nazarene,  who  had  cured  her  father 
of  blindness.  With  strict  injunctions  of  secrecy,  she 
lent  her  a  copy  of  St.  John's  Gospel ;  and  in  this  the 
young  enthusiastic  girl  at  once  recognised  the  deeper 
and  more  spiritual  teachings  for  which  her  soul  had 
yearned.  And  so  it  came  that  the  daughter  of  a 
wealthy  house  in  Ephesus  sat  at  the  feet  of  the  apostle, 
in  the  despised  assembly  of  the  Christians. 

The  other  person  who  seemed  most  remarkably 
moved  by  the  inspired  eloquence  of  John,  was  a  young 
Greek  of  superb  beauty.  His  form  was  vigorous  and 
finely  proportioned.  The  carriage  of  his  head  was 
free  and  proud,  and  there  was  intense  light  in  his  large 
dark  eyes,  indicating  a  soul  of  fire.  Indeed  his  whole 
countenance  was  remarkable  for  transparency  and 
mobility  of  expression.  When  indignant  at  tyranny 
or  insult,  he  looked  like  a  young  war-horse  rushing 
to  battle  ;  but  at  the  voice  of  tenderness,  the  dilated 
nostril  subsided,  and  the  flashing  eye  was  dimmed 
with  tears. 

This  constant  revelation  of  soul  particularly  attract 
ed  the  attention  of  the  venerable  apostle ;  for  he  saw 
in  it  a  nature  liable  to  the  greatest  dangers,  and  capa 
ble  of  the  highest  good.  After  he  had  dismissed  the 
assembly,  with  his  usual  paternal  benediction,  "  Little 
children,  love  one  another,"  he  stepped  forward,  and 
laying  his  hand  affectionately  on  the  head  of  the 
young  Greek,  said,  "  And  thou,  my  son,  art  thou  too 
a  Christian  ?"  With  emphasis  full  of  feeling,  the 


A    LEGEND    OF    THE     APOSTLE    JOHN.  95 

young  man  replied,  "  I  would  I  were  a  Christian." 
Pleased  with  the  earnest  humility  of  this  answer,  the 
apostle  drew  his  arm  within  his  own,  and  they  retired 
to  an  inner  apartment  to  converse  together.  During 
this  confidential  conversation,  the  young  man  made  a 
full  and  free  revelation  of  his  soul,  in  all  its  strength 
and  weakness.  At  times,  his  daring  and  fiery  words 
startled  the  more  subdued  nature  of  the  meek  disciple  ; 
but  at  the  same  moment,  the  crystalline  frankness  of 
his  heart  excited  the  warmest  and  most  confiding 
affection.  From  that  time,  it  was  observable  that  the 
apostle  treated  him  with  more  marked  tenderness  than 
he  evinced  toward  any  other  of  his  converts.  A  few 
months  after,  feeling  that  duty  required  him  to  take  a 
long  journey  to  comfort  and  strengthen  the  surround 
ing  churches  of  Asia,  he  called  his  flock  together,  and 
bade  them  an  affectionate  farewell.  At  parting,  he 
placed  the  hand  of  the  young  Greek  within  the  hand 
of  the  presiding  elder,  and  said  solemnly,  "  To  thy 
care  I  consign  my  precious,  my  beloved  son,  Antiorus. 
In  the  Epicurean  gardens  he  has  learned  that  pleasure 
is  the  only  good ;  from  Christians  let  him  learn  that 
good  is  the  only  pleasure.  Be  to  him  a  father ;  for 
at  my  return  I  shall  require  his  soul  at  thy  hands." 
The  bishop  promised,  and  the  young  man  wept  as  he 
kissed  his  venerable  friend. 

The  apostle  was  gathering  his  robe  about  him,  and 
fastening  his  girdle,  preparing  to  walk  forth,  when 
Miriam  glided  timidly  before  him,  saying  in  a  tremu 
lous  tone,  "  My  father,  bless  me  before  you  go."  She 
removed  her  veil,  and  stooped  to  kiss  his  hand.  The 
veil  dropped  again  instantly,  but  the  sudden  action 


96       A  LEGEND  OF  THE  APOSTLE  JOHN. 

had  revealed  to  Antiorus  a  countenance  of  surpassing 
beauty.  He  had  no  time  to  analyze  the  features ;  but 
he  saw  that  her  contour  was  noble,  and  that  her  large 
almond-shaped  eyes,  of  the  darkest  brown,  were  sin 
gularly  brilliant,  yet  deep  and  serene  in  their  expres-' 
sion.  The  tones  of  her  voice,  too,  thrilled  through 
his  soul ;  for  they  were  like  a  silver  bell,  softening 
language  into  music.  For  an  instant,  she  caught  the 
beaming  glance  of  his  eye,  and  an  electric  spark  fell 
from  it  into  her  heart.  Henceforth,  each  observed  the 
other's  motions,  and  each  was  indistinctly  conscious 
of  pervading  the  other's  being.  The  customs  of  the 
times,  combined  with  her  maidenly  reserve,  rendered 
it  difficult  to  form  a  personal  acquaintance.  But 
Antiorus  had  a  Greek  friend,  whose  dwelling  adjoin 
ed  the  gardens  of  Miriam's  father ;  and  the  house  of 
this  friend  became  singularly  attractive  to  him.  Here 
he  could  sometimes  catch  the  sound  of  her  voice,  ac 
companied  by  her  harp,  as  she  sang  to  her  father  the 
psalms  of  David.  At  last,  he  ventured  to  speak  to 
her,  as  they  left  the  assembly  of  the  Christians.  He 
timidly  asked  her  if  she  would  play,  on  the  next  Sab 
bath  evening,  the  same  psalm  he  had  heard  on  the 
preceding  Sabbath.  She  started,  and  made  no  an 
swer.  The  crimson  suffusion  of  her  face  he  could 
not  see.  But  when  the  Sabbath  came,  softly  on  the 
evening  air  arose  his  favourite  psalm,  with  a  deeper 
expression,  a  more  sweet  solemnity  than  ever.  While 
the  strings  yet  vibrated,  his  Phrygian  flute  gently  an 
swered,  in  a  simple  Grecian  air,  the  utterance  of  a 
soul  tender  and  sad.  Tear-drops  fell  slowly  on  the 
strings  of  Miriam's  harp ;  but  she  alone  knew  that 


A   LEGEND    OF    THE    APOSTLE    JOHN.  97 

the  spirit  of  the  beautiful  Greek  had  thus  entered  in 
visibly  into  the  sanctuary  of  the  Jewish  maiden.  How 
dear  was  now  her  harp,  since  his  soul  had  kissed  the 
winged  messengers  it  sent  from  hers  !  Again  and 
again,  harp  and  flute  responded  to  each  other.  Their 
young  hearts  were  overflowing  with  new  and  heaven 
ly  emotions,  which  music  alone  could  utter.  For 
music  is  among  the  arts  what  love  is  among  the  pas 
sions  ;  a  divine  mediator  between  spirit  and  matter  ;  a 
flowery  spiral,  descending  from  the  highest  sanctuary 
of  the  soul  into  the  outer  court  of  the  senses,  return 
ing  again  from  the  senses  to  the  soul,  twining  them, 
together  in  perpetual  bloom  and  fragrance. 

But  music  has  the  vagueness  of  all  things  infi 
nite  ;  and  they  who  talked  together  in  tones,  earnest 
ly  desired  to  speak  in  words.  At  the  Christian 
assemblies  too  strict  decorum  was  observed,  to  admit 
of  conversation  between  them.  Into  her  father's 
house  he  could  not  gain  entrance  ;  or  if  he  did,  she 
would  be  carefully  secluded  from  the  gaze  of  a  Gen 
tile.  And  so  at  last,  by  help  of  the  over-indulgent 
nurse,  there  came  meetings  in  the  garden,  while  all 
the  household  slept.  Under  the  dim  light  of  the  stars, 
they  talked  of  the  new  faith,  which  had  brought  them 
together.  He  loved  to  disclose  to  her  mind  the 
moonlight  glory  of  Plato,  showing  a  world  of  mar 
velous  beautv  in  shadowy  outline,  but  fully  revealing 
nothing.  While  she,  in  soft  serious  tones,  spoke  of 
the  Hebrew  prophets,  complaining  that  they  seemed 
like  an  infinite  glow,  forever  expressing  a  want  they 
never  satisfied.  Beautiful  and  majestic  was  their 
utterance,  but  it  was  not  high  and  deep  enough  to 
9 


93  A   LEGEND    OF    THE    APOSTLE    JOHN. 

satisfy  the  aspirations  of  her  soul  ;  therefore  she 
clung  to  the  sublime  all-embracing  doctrines  of  Christ. 
From  these  high  themes,  they  came  gradually  to 
speak  of  their  affection  for  each  other.  There  was 
no  desecration  in  this  mingling  of  emotions  ;  for  gen 
uine  love  is  as  holy  as  religion  ;  and  all  round  the 
circling  horizon  of  our  mysterious  being,  heaven  and 
earth  do  kiss  each  other. 

One  night,  their  stolen  interview  in  the  garden  was 
interrupted  by  a  noise  on  the  house-top  ;  and  fearing 
they  were  suspected  or  observed,  they  resolved  to  be 
more  prudent.  Weeks  passed,  therefore,  and  they 
saw  each  other  only  at  the  meetings  of  the  Christians, 
rendered  doubly  precious  by  the  obstacles  which  else 
where  separated  them.  There  was  another  reason 
why  they  thought  more  of  each  other's  presence,  than 
they  would  have  done  had  the  good  apostle  John  been 
with  them.  As  a  deep  rich  musical  voice  will  some 
times  join  itself  to  a  company  of  timid  and  wavering 
singers,  and  gradually  raise  the  whole  chorus  to  its 
own  power  and  clearness,  so  the  influence  of  his  holy 
and  living  soul  elevated  the  character  of  every  assem 
bly  he  joined.  With  him,  something  of  unction  and 
fervour  had  departed  from  the  Christian  meetings,  and 
still  more  of  calm  assured  faith.  More  fear  of  the 
world  was  visible,  more  anxiety  to  build  up  a  respect 
able  name.  The  lovers  felt  this,  though  they  had  not 
distinctly  defined  it ;  and  being  less  elevated  by  the 
religious  services,  their  thoughts  were  more  conscious 
ly  occupied  with  each  other.  But  their  mutual  ab 
sorption  passed  unobserved  ;  for  Miriam  was  always 
closely  veiled,  and  if  she  dropped  a  rose,  or  Antiorus 


A   LEGEND     OF    THE    APOSTLE    JOHN.  99 

a  sprig  of  myrtle,  it  seemed  mere  accident  to  all  but 
the  watchful  and  sympathizing  nurse.  These  silent 
manifestations  of  course  made  the  concealed  flame 
burn  all  the  more  fervently.  Perpetual  separation 
was  so  wearisome,  that  at  last  Miriam,  in  the  pleni 
tude  of  her  love  and  confidence,  granted  his  urgent 
entreaty  to  walk  with  him  once,  only  once,  in  disguise, 
when  all  were  sleeping.  He  had  a  proposition  to 
make,  he  said,  and  he  must  have  an  opportunity  to 
talk  freely  with  her.  In  the  garb  of  Greek  peasants 
they  joined  each  other,  and  passing  through  the  least 
frequented  streets,  sought  the  mountains  by  a  solitary 
path.  In  a  concealed  nook  of  rock,  under  the  shadow 
of  broad-leaved  trees,  they  spoke  together  in  agitation 
and  tears.  Love  is  ever  a  troubled  joy  ;  a  semi-tone 
changes  its  brightest  strains  into  plaintive  modulations. 
Miriam  wept,  as  she  told  her  beloved  that  they  must 
part  forever.  She  had  come  only  to  tell  him  so,  and 
bid  him  farewell.  As  yet  she  had  not  courage  to 
confess  that  she  was  promised  to  a  wealthy  kinsman, 
a  stern  old  Pharisee ;  but  her  father  had  told  her,  that 
day,  that  immediate  preparations  must  be  made  for 
the  wedding.  The  enamoured  Greek  spoke  with  fiery 
indignation,  that  her  father  should  dare  thus  to  seal 
up  the  treasures  of  her  large  warm  gushing  heart, 
for  the  sake  of  preserving  wealth  in  the  family.  To 
her  timid  suggestion  that  obedience  was  due  to  pa 
rents,  he  insisted  upon  a  higher  obedience  to  the  divine 
law  in  the  soul.  In  such  a  union  as  she  spoke  of,  he 
said  there  was  positive  pollution,  which  no  law  or 
custom  could  cleanse ;  for  the  heart  alone  could  sanc 
tify  the  senses.  The  maiden  bent  her  head,  and  felt 


100  A   LEGEND     OF    THE    APOSTLE    JOHN. 

her  cheeks  burning ;  for  she  was  conscious  of  a  pain 
ful  sense  of  degradation  whenever  the  odious  marriage 
was  forced  upon  her  thoughts.  He  took  her  hand, 
and  it  trembled  within  his,  while  he  spoke  to  her  of 
flight,  of  secret  marriage,  and  a  hidden  home  of  love 
in  some  far-off  Grecian  isle.  He  drew  her  gently 
toward  him,  and  for  the  first  time  her  lovely  head 
rested  on  his  bosom.  As  she  looked  up  fondly  and 
tearfully  in  his  face,  he  stooped  to  kiss  her  beautiful 
lips,  which  trembling  gave  an  almost  imperceptible 
pressure  in  return.  Faint  and  timid  as  was  this  first 
maiden  kiss,  it  rushed  through  his  system  like  a 
stream  of  fire.  The  earthly  portion  of  love  proclaim 
ed  ascendency  over  the  soul,  and  tried  him  with  a 
fierce  temptation.  She  loved  him,  and  they  were 
alone  in  the  midnight.  Should  he  ever  be  able  to 
marry  her  ?  Might  not  this  stolen  and  troubled  inter 
view  be,  as  she  said,  the  last  ?  He  breathed  with 
difficulty,  his  whole  frame  shook  like  a  tree  in  the 
storm ;  but  she  lay  on  his  bosom,  as  ignorant  of  the 
struggle,  as  if  she  had  been  a  sleeping  babe.  Ee- 
buked  by  her  unconscious  innocence,  he  said  inwardly 
to  the  tempting  spirit,  "  Get  thee  behind  me  !  Why 
strivest  thou  to  lead  me  into  evil  ? "  But  the  spirit 
answered,  "  The  sin  is  wholly  of  man's  making. 
These  Christians  are  too  ascetic.  The  Epicurean 
philosophy  better  agrees  with  nature." 

The  scene  seemed  to  have  entered  into  a  league 
with  the  tempting  spirit.  Nothing  interrupted  the 
drowsy  moon-stillness,  save  the  pattering  of  a  little 
rill  that  trickled  from  the  rocks,  the  amorous  cooing 
of  two  ring-doves  awake  in  their  nests  among  the 


A   LEGEND     OF    THE    APOSTLE    JOHN.  101 

shrubbery  above,  and  the  flute  of  some  distant  lover 
conversing  passionately  with  the  moon.  The  maiden 
herself,  saddened  by  a  presentiment,  that  this  bliss 
was  too  perfect  to  last,  and  melted  into  unusual  ten 
derness  by  the  silent  beauty  of  the  night,  and  the 
presence  of  the  beloved  one,  folded  her  arm  more 
caressingly  about  his  waist,  till  he  felt  the  beating  of 
her  heart.  With  frantic  energy,  he  pressed  his  hand 
against  his  throbbing  brow,  and  gazed  earnestly  into 
the  clear  arch  of  heaven,  as  if  imploring  strength  to 
aid  his  higher  nature.  Again  the  tempter  said,  "  Thy 
Epicurean  philosophy  was  more  in  harmony  with 
nature.  Pleasure  is  the  only  good."  Then  he  re 
membered  the  parting  words  of  St.  John,  "  Good  is 
the  only  pleasure."  A  better  influence  glided  into 
his  soul,  and  a  still  small  voice  within  him  whispered, 
"  Thou  hast  no  need  to  compare  philosophies  and 
creeds,  to  know  whether  it  be  good  to  dishonour  her 
who  trusts  thee,  or  by  thy  selfishness  to  bring  a  stain 
on  the  pure  and  persecuted  faith  of  the  Christians. 
.Restore  the  maiden  to  her  home."  The  tempter  veil 
ed  his  face  and  turned  away,  for  he  felt  that  the  young 
man  was  listening  to  an  angel. 

With  a  calm  sad  voice,  spoke  the  tempted  one,  as  he 
gently  and  reverently  removed  the  beloved  head  from 
his  breast.  Taking  Miriam  by  the  hand,  he  led  her 
out  from  the  deep  shadow  of  the  trees,  to  the  little  rill 
that  gurgled  near  by,  and  gathering  water  in  his  hands, 
he  offered  her  to  drink.  As  she  stood  there  in  the 
moonlight,  drinking  from  his  hand,  the  shadow  of  the 
vines  danced  across  her  face,  and  fluttered  gracefully 
over  the  folds  of  her  white  dress.  At  that  moment, 
9* 


102  A    LEGEND     OF    THE    APOSTLE    JOHN. 

when  the  thought  of  danger  was  far  from  them  both, 
an  arrow  whizzed  throgh  the  air,  and  with  a  groan 
the  maiden  fell  backward  on  the  arm  that  was  hastily 
extended  to  save  her  from  falling. 

They  were  standing  near  a  portion  of  Mt.  Prion, 
whence  marble  had  been  dug  for  the  numerous  edifi 
ces  of  the  city.  It  was  full  of  grottoes,  with  winding 
mazes  blocked  up  with  fragments  of  stone.  The  first 
thought  of  Antiorus  was  to  retreat  hastily  from  the 
moonlight  that  had  made  them  visible,  and  the  next 
was  to  conceal  his  senseless  burden  within  the  recesses 
of  the  grotto,  here  and  there  made  luminous  by  fis 
sures  in  the  rocks.  Carefully  he  drew  the  arrow  from 
the  wound,  and  bound  it  tightly  with  his  mantle.  He 
gathered  water  from  the  dripping  cavern,  and  dashed 
it  in  her  face.  But  his  efforts  to  restore  life  were  un 
availing.  Regardless  of  his  own  safety,  he  would 
have  rushed  back  to  the  city  and  roused  his  friends, 
but  he  dared,  not  thus  compromise  the  fair  fame  of 
her  who  had  loved  him  so  purely,  though  so  tenderly. 
Perhaps  the  person  who  aimed  the  arrow  might  have 
mistaken  them  for  others ;  at  all  events,  they  could 
not  have  been  positively  known.  In  a  state  of  ago 
nized  indecision,  he  stepped  to  the  entrance  of  the 
grotto,  and  looked  and  listened.  All  was  still,  save 
the  pattering  of  water-drops.  Presently  he  heard  a 
sound,  as  of  feet  descending  the  path  from  the  moun 
tains.  With  long  strides,  he  bounded  up  to  meet  the 
advancing  stranger,  and  with  energetic  brevity  begged 
for  assistance  to  convey  a  wounded  maiden  to  some 
place  of  safety,  away  from  the  city.  The  stranger 
said  he  had  companions,  who  would  bring  a  litter  from 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  APOSTLE  JOHN.      103 

the  mountains,  and  he  turned  back  to  summon  them. 
The  minutes  seemed  hours  to  Antiorus,  till  his  return; 
for  though  all  hope  of  restoring  the  precious  life  was 
well  nigh  extinct,  he  felt  continual  dread  of  being  dis 
covered  by  the  unseen  foe,  who  had  aimed  the  fatal 
arrow.  At  last,  the  promised  assistance  came,  and 
they  slowly  ascended  the  mountain  with  their  mourn 
ful  burden.  After  pursuing  a  winding  rugged  path 
for  some  distance,  they  entered  a  spacious  cavern.  A 
lamp  was  burning  on  a  table  of  rock,  and  several  men 
were  stretched  on  the  ground  sleeping.  The  litter 
was  gently  lowered,  and  Antiorus  bent  in  agony  over 
the  senseless  form  so  lately  full  of  life  and  love.  Not 
until  every  means  had  been  tried  that  ingenuity  could 
devise,  would  he  believe  that  her  pure  and  gentle 
spirit  had  passed  from  its  beautiful  earthly  frame  for 
ever.  But  when  the  last  ray  of  hope  departed,  he 
gave  himself  up  to  grief  so  frightfully  stormy,  that 
the  rude  dwellers  in  the  cave  covered  their  eyes,  that 
they  might  not  witness  the  terrible  anguish  of  his 
sensitive  and  powerful  soul.  In  his  desperate  grief, 
he  heaped  upon  himself  all  manner  of  reproaches. 
Why  had  he  sought  her  love,  when  it  was  almost 
sure  to  end  unhappily  ?  Why  had  he  so  selfishly 
availed  himself  of  her  tenderness,  when  the  world 
would  judge  so  harshly  of  the  concessions  she  had 
made  to  love  ?  Then,  in  the  bitterness  of  his  heart, 
he  cursed  the  world  for  its  false  relations,  its  barriers 
built  on  selfishness  and  pride.  But  soon,  in  the  pros 
tration  of  deep  humility,  he  forgave  all  men,  and 
blamed  only  his  own  over-leaping  nature.  Through 
all  his  changes  of  mood,  ran  the  intensely  mournful 


104  A   LEGEND     OF    THE    APOSTLE    JOHN. 

strain,  "  Oh,  my  beloved,  would  to  God  I  had  died 
for  thee  ! " 

But  it  is  kindly  ordered  that  human  nature  can 
not  long  remain  under  the  influence  of  extreme 
anguish  ;  its  very  intensity  stupifies  the  soul.  When 
Antiorus  became  calm  from  exhaustion,  the  man  who 
had  guided  him  to  the  mountain  spoke  in  low  tones 
of  the  necessity  of  burial.  The  mourner  listened 
with  a  visible  shudder.  While  he  could  gaze  on  her 
beautiful  face,  so  placid  in  the  sleep  of  death,  it  seemed 
as  if  something  remained  to  him ;  but  when  that 
should  be  covered  from  his  gaze  forever,  oh  how  fear 
fully  lonely  the  earth  would  seem !  By  degrees, 
however,  he  was  brought  to  admit  the  necessity  of 
separation.  He  himself  gathered  green  branches  for 
the  litter,  and  covered  it  with  the  fairest  flowers.  He 
cut  a  braid  of  her  glossy  hair,  and  his  tears  fell  on  it 
like  the  spring  rain.  In  a  green  level  space  among 
the  trees,  they  dug  a  deep  grave,  and  reverently  laid 
her  within  it,  in  her  peasant  robes.  The  doves  cooed 
in  the  branches,  and  a  pleasant  sound  of  murmuring 
waters  came  up  from  the  dell  below.  The  mourner 
fashioned  a  large  cross,  and  planted  it  strongly  at  the 
head  of  the  grave.  He  sought  for  the  most  beautiful 
vines,  and  removing  them  in  large  sods,  twined  them 
about  the  cross.  He  sobbed  himself  to  sleep  on  the 
mound,  and  when  his  companions  brought  him  food, 
he  ate  as  though  he  tasted  it  not. 

The  strong  ardent  nature  of  the  young  Greek,  his 
noble  beauty  and  majestic  figure,  commanded  their 
involuntary  respect,  while  the  intensity  of  his  sorrow 
moved  even  their  slow  sympathies.  But  when  seve- 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  APOSTLE  JOHN.      105 

ral  days  had  elapsed,  their  leader  began  to  question 
him  concerning  his  future  prospects  and  intentions. 
The  subject  thus  forced  upon  his  reluctant  thoughts 
was  a  painful  one.  He  dared  not  return  openly  to 
Ephesus  ;  for  whether  his  secret  interviews  with  Mi 
riam  had  been  suspected  by  her  family,  or  not,  her 
sudden  disappearance,  connected  with  his  own,  must 
of  course  have  given  rise  to  the  most  unfavourable 
rumours.  Of  the  effect  on  the  little  community  of 
Christians,  already  so  unpopular,  he  thought  with  ex 
ceeding  pain.  And  these  dark  suspicious-looking  men, 
that  dwelt  in  caverns,  who  were  they  ? 

They  soon  resolved  his  doubts  on  this  subject ;  for 
their  leader  said  boldly,  "  We  are  robbers.  You  are 
in  some  way  implicated  in  the  death  of  this  young 
woman,  and  you  dare  not  return  to  Ephesus.  Remain 
with  us.  We  have  seen  your  strength,  and  we  like 
your  temper.  Stay  with  us,  and  you  shall  be  our 
leader." 

The  proposition  startled  him  with  its  strangeness, 
and  filled  his  soul  with  loathing.  He,  on  whose  fair 
integrity  no  stain  had  ever  rested,  he  become  a  robber ! 
He,  who  had  so  lately  sat  at  the  feet  of  the  holy  apos 
tle,  and  felt  in  his  inmost  heart  the  blessed  influence 
of  the  words,  "  Love  your  enemies,  do  good  to  them 
that  hate  you" — was  it  proposed  to  him  to  arm  him 
self  against  unoffending  brethren  ?  Concealing  his 
abhorrence,  by  a  strong  effort,  he  thanked  the  robber 
for  the  kindness  he  had  shown  him  in  his  great  dis 
tress,  and  promised  to  repay  him  for  it ;  but  he  told 
him  mildly  that  his  habits  and  his  feelings  alike  un 
fitted  him  for  a  life  like  theirs.  He  would  return  to 


106  A    LEGEND     CF    TEE     APOSTLE    JOHN. 

Ephesus,  and  consult  with  friends  concerning  his  fu 
ture  plans.  The  men  seemed  dissatisfied  with  their 
leader's  courtesy  to  the  stranger,  and  grumbled  some 
thing  about  his  going  to  guide  the  magistrates  to  their 
cavern  in  the  mountains.  Antiorus  turned  proudly 
toward  them,  and  with  strong  convincing  earnestness 
replied,  "  You  cannot  deem  me  base  enough  thus  to 
recompense  your  kindness."  His  voice  became  lower 
and  deeper  with  emotion,  as  he  added,  "  Reverently 
and  tenderly  you  have  treated  her  who  sleeps  ;  and 
the  secret  that  thus  came  to  my  knowledge  shall  never 
be  revealed.  I  would  die  rather  than  divulge  it." 
The  men  stood  silent,  awed  by  the  dignity  of  his  bear 
ing  and  the  clear  truthfulness  of  his  words.  After  a 
slight  pause,  their  leader  said,  "  We  believe  you  ;  but 
there  are  doubtless  those  in  Ephesus  who  would  pay 
a  handsome  sum  to  gain  tidings  from  you.  You  may 
keep  your  secret,  if  you  like ;  hut  it  cannot  be  con 
cealed  that  you  and  the  beautiful  maiden  were  no 
peasants.  What  if  we  put  the  magistrates  on  your 
track  ?" 

Looking  him  openly  and  fearlessly  in  the  eye,  An 
tiorus  replied,  "  Because  you  have  not  so  lost  your 
manly  nature.  A  voice  within  you  would  forbid  you 
to  persecute  one  already  so  crushed  and  heart-broken. 
You  will  not  do  it,  because  I  am  in  your  power,  and 
because  I  trust  you."  This  appeal  to  the  manliness 
that  remained  within  them,  controlled  their  rough  na 
tures,  and  the  bold  frankness  of  his  eyes  kindled  their 
admiration.  Clasping  his  hand  with  rough  cordiality, 
the  leader  said,  "  We  will  not  inform  against  you,  and 
we  will  trust  you  to  go  to  Ephesus."  "  Let  him  seal 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  APOSTLE  JOHN.      107 

his  promise  by  an  oath  to  Hecate  and  the  Furies," 
murmured  several  voices.  The  leader  folded  his  arras 
across  his  breast,  and  answered  slowly  and  proudly, 
"  The  simple  word  of  such  a  man  is  more  sacred  to 
him  than  the  most  terrible  oaths."  The  countenance 
of  the  impetuous  young  Greek  became  at  once  illu 
minated.  Seizing  the  hand  of  the  robber-captain,  he 
said,  "  My  friend,  you  are  worthy  of  a  better  occupa 
tion."  "  Perhaps  so,"  replied  the  other,  with  a  deep 
sigh  ;  "at  least,  I  thought  so  once." 

*         *         *         *         *         #         * 

Under  the  shadow  of  evening,  and  disguised  in 
dress,  Antiorus  ventured  to  return  to  Ephesus.  The 
first  house  he  entered  was  the  one  adjoining  the  gar 
dens,  where  he  had  so  often  listened  to  Miriam's 
harp.  The  moment  he  was  recognised,  all  eyes  look 
ed  coldly  on  him.  "  Why  hast  thou  come  hither  ?" 
said  his  once  friendly  host.  "  Already  my  house  has 
been  searched  for  thee,  and  I  am  suspected  of  aiding 
thy  designs  by  bringing  thee  within  hearing  of  the 
gardens.  Curse  on  thy  imprudence  !  Were  there  not 
women  enough  in  the  streets  of  Ephesus,  that  thou' 
must  needs  dishonour  one  of  its  wealthiest  families  ?" 

In  former  times,  the  sensitive  young  man  would 
have  flashed  fire  at  these  insulting  words ;  but  now 
he  meekly  replied,  "  You  judge  me  wrongfully.  I 
loved  her  purely  arid  reverently."  His  friend  answer 
ed  sarcastically,  "  Perhaps  you  learned  this  smooth 
hypocrisy  at  the  meetings  of  the  Christians  ;  for  there, 
I  understand,  to  my  great  surprise,  it  has  been  your 
habit  to  attend.  What  name  they  give  to  such  trans 
actions  I  do  not  care  to  know.  It  is  enough  to  say 


103  A    LEGEND     OF    THE    APOSTLE    JOHN. 

that  you  are  no  longer  a  welcome  guest  in  my  house." 
For  a  moment  a  deep  flush  went  over  the  young 
man's  expressive  countenance,  and  his  eye  kindled ; 
but  he  turned  away,  and  silently  departed ;  lingering 
for  a  moment  with  fond  reluctance,  on  the  steps  of  the 
terrace  he  had  so  often  mounted  rapidly,  buoyant  with 
love  and  hope. 

With  a  sorrowful  heart,  he  sought  the  dwelling  of 
the  Christian  elder,  to  whom  St.  John  had  so  affec 
tionately  confided  him,  at  parting.  As  soon  as  he 
made  himself  known,  a  severe  frown  clouded  the  face 
of  the  bishop.  "  What  impudence  has  brought  thee 
hither  ?"  he  exclaimed.  "  Hast  thou  not  sufficiently 
disgraced  the  Church  by  thy  wickedness,  without  pre 
suming  to  disgrace  it  further  by  thy  presence  ?" 
"  You  judge  me  too  harshly,"  replied  the  young  man, 
meekly.  "  Imprudent  I  have  been,  but  not  wicked." 
"  Where  hast  thou  hidden  thy  paramour  ?"  said  the 
bishop  impatiently.  The  eyes  of  the  young  Greek 
glowed  like  coals  of  fire,  his  nostrils  expanded,  his 
lips  quivered,  his  breast  heaved,  and  his  hand  strongly 
clenched  the  staff  on  which  he  leaned.  But  he  con 
strained  himself,  and  answered  with  mournful  calm 
ness,  "  I  have  no  paramour.  She  on  whose  innocent 
name  you  have  breathed  an  epithet  so  undeserved,  has 
passed  from  earth  to  heaven,  pure  as  the  angels  who 
received  her." 

In  answer  to  further  inquiries,  he  frankly  repeated 
the  whole  story,  not  concealing  the  temptation,  which 
had  so  nearly  conquered  him.  In  reply,  the  bishop 
informed  him  that  suspicion  had  been  awakened  pre 
vious  to  their  imprudent  midnight  ramble.  The  at- 


A    LEGEND    OF    THE    APOSTLE    JOHN.  109 

tendance  of  Miriam  and  her  nurse  at  the  Christian 
meetings  had  been  discovered  ;  her  absence  on  that 
fatal  night  had  been  detected  ;  the  nurse  fled  in  terror; 
the  betrothed  husband  of  Miriam  went  forth  madly 
into  the  streets,  vowing  revenge  ;  her  father  believed 
he  had  traced  the  fugitives  on  board  a  ship  bound  to 
Athens,  whither  he  had  sent  spies  to  discover  them. 
Whether  the  Jewish  lover  had  fired  the  arrow  or  not, 
it  was  impossible  to  tell ;  but  should  it  be  known  that 
Miriam  was  dead,  her  death  would  unquestionably  be 
charged  on  Antiorus,  and  the  effect  would  be  to  re 
new  the  popular  hatred  against  the  Christians,  with 
redoubled  vigour.  At  present,  believing  her  to  be  in 
Athens,  it  was  the  policy  of  her  family  to  keep  the  af 
fair  from  the  public,  as  much  as  possible. 

Antiorus  expressed  the  utmost  contrition  for  his 
imprudence,  but  averred  most  solemnly  that  he  had  in 
no  way  violated  his  conscience,  or  his  Christian  obli 
gations.  He  begged  the  bishop  for  credentials  to  some 
distant  Christian  Church,  where  by  a  life  of  humility 
and  prayer,  he  might  make  himself  ready  to  rejoin 
his  beloved  Miriam. 

The  bishop,  vexed  at  an  affair  so  likely  to  bring 
discredit  on  his  own  watchfulness,  listened  coldly,  and 
replied,  "  For  the  prosperity  of  the  Church,  it  is  very 
necessary  to  obtain  and  preserve  a  good  name.  We 
must  avoid  the  appearance  of  evil.  Appearances  are 
very  much  against  you.  You  are  young  and  of  fiery 
blood.  You  have  been  an  Epicurean,  whose  doc 
trines  favour  unbridled  pleasure.  You  say  that  your 
love  for  this  maiden  was  pure ;  but  what  proof  have 
we,  save  your  own  word  ?"  Antiorus  raised  his  head 
10 


110  A    LEGEND    OF    THE    APOSTLE    JOHN. 

proudly,  and  with  a  clear  bold  glance  replied,  "  What 
more  is  needed  ?  Have  I  ever  spoken  falsely  to 
friend  or  foe  ?"  "  I  know  not,"  answered  the  bishop. 
"  Young  men  do  not  usually  decoy  maidens  into  hid 
den  grottoes,  at  midnight,  for  purposes  as  pure  as  the 
angels." 

Alas,  for  his  less  noble  nature  !  He  knew  not  the 
value  of  the  warm  heart  he  was  thus  turning  to  gall. 
The  young  man  bent  upon  him  a  most  intense  and 
searching  gaze.  He  thought  of  that  fearfully  strong 
temptation  in  the  lonely  midnight  hour ;  of  his  ex 
treme  reluctance  to  bring  suspicion  on  the  character 
of  the  Christian  Church  ;  of  his  conquest  over  him 
self;  of  his  reverential  love  for  the  pure  maiden  ;  of 
his  virtuous  resolutions,  and  his  holy  aspirations.  He 
had  opened  his  whole  heart  to  this  father  of  the 
Church,  and  thus  it  had  been  received !  Would 
Christ  have  thus  weighed  the  respectability  of  the 
Church  against  the  salvation  of  a  human  soul  ?  Were 
these  beautiful  doctrines  of  love  and  forgiveness  mere 
idle  theories  ?  Mere  texts  for  fine  speeches  and  elo 
quent  epistles  ?  A  disbelief  in  all  principles,  a  dis 
trust  of  all  men,  took  possession  of  him.  With  a  deep 
sigh,  he  gathered  his  robe  about  him  and  departed. 
He  walked  hastily,  as  if  to  run  away  from  his  own 
mad  thoughts.  Ascending  an  eminence,  he  paused 
and  looked  back  on  the  city,  its  white  columns  dimly 
visible  in  the  starlight.  "  There  is  no  one  there  to 
love  me,"  said  he.  "  I  am  an  orphan  ;  no  mother  or 
sister  to  comfort  my  aching  heart.  I  have  had  great 
projects,  great  hopes,  sublime  aspirations  ;  but  that  is 
all  over  now.  No  matter  what  becomes  of  me.  I 


A   LEGEND    OF    THE    APOSTLE    JOHN.  Ill 

will  go  to  the  robbers.     I  have  no  other  friends  ;  and 
they  at  least  believed  me." 

He  was  received  in  the  mountain  cavern  with  an 
uproarious  burst  of  joy.  They  drank  wine  and  ca 
roused,  and  with  loud  acclamations  proclaimed  him 
king  of  their  band.  His  heart  was  sick  within  him, 
but  with  wild  desperation,  he  drank  to  their  pledge. 
That  night,  when  all  the  riotous  Crew  were  sleeping, 
he  stole  forth  into  the  midnight,  and  stood  alone  on 
the  mountain  side,  gazing  mournfully  upon  the  stars, 
that  looked  down  upon  him  with  solemn  love.  Then 
tossing  his  arms  wildly  above  his  head,  he  threw  him 
self  on  the  ground  with  a  mighty  sob,  exclaiming, 
"  Oh,  if  she  had  but  lived,  her  pure  and  gentle  spirit 
would  have  saved  me  !" 

Hark  !  Is  that  a  faint  whispering  of  music  in  the 
air  ?  Or  is  it  memory's  echo  of  Miriam's  psalm  ? 
Now  it  dies  away  in  so  sad  a  cadence — and  now  it 
rises,  full  of  victory.  It  has  passed  into  his  heart ; 
and  spite  of  recklessness  and  sin,  it  will  keep  there  a 
nestling-place  for  holiness  and  love. 

#  =fc  *  *  * 

When  the  apostle  John  returned  to  Ephesus,  his 
first  inquiry  of  the  bishop  was, "  Where  is  the  beloved 
son  I  committed  to  thy  charge  ?"  The  elder,  looking 
down,  replied,  with  some  embarrassment,  "  He  is 
dead  !"  "  Dead  !"  exclaimed  the  apostle,  "  How  did 
he  die  ?"  The  elder  answered  with  a  sigh,  "  He  is 
dead  in  trespasses  and  sins.  He  became  dissolute, 
was  led  away  by  evil  companions,  and  it  is  said  he  is 
now  captain  of  a  band  of  robbers  in  yonder  moun 
tains."  With  a  voice  full  of  sorrowful  reproach,  the 


112  A   LEGEND    OF    THE    APOSTLE    JOHN. 

apostle  said,  "  And  is  it  thus,  my  brother,  thou  hast 
cared  for  the  precious  soul  that  Christ  and  I  commit 
ted  to  thy  charge  ?  Bring  me  a  horse  and  a  guide  to 
the  mountains.  I  will  go  to  my  erring  son."  "  I  pray 
you  do  not  attempt  it,"  exclaimed  the  elder.  "  You 
will  be  seized  by  the  robbers  and  perhaps  murdered." 
"  Hinder  me  not,"  replied  the  venerable  man.  "  If 
need  be,  I  will  gladly  die  to  save  his  soul,  even  as 
Christ  died  for  us.  I  will  go  to  my  son;  perchance 
he  will  listen  to  me." 

They  brought  him  a  horse,  and  he  rode  to  the 
mountains.  While  searching  for  the  cavern,  one  of 
the  robbers  came  up  and  seized  him  rudely,  exclaim 
ing,  "  Who  art  thou,  old  man  ?  Come  before  our 
captain,  and  declare  thy  business." 

"  For  that  purpose  I  came  hither,"  replied  the 
apostle.  "  Bring  me  to  your  captain." 

Antiorus,  hearing  the  sound  of  voices,  stepped 
forth  from  "the  mouth  of  the  cavern  ;  but  when  he 
saw  John,  he  covered  his  face  and  turned  quickly 
away.  The  apostle  ran  toward  him  with  outstretched 
arms,  exclaiming,  "Why  dost  thou  fly  from  me,  my 
son  ?  From  me,  an  old  unarmed  man  ?  Thou  art 
dear  to  me,  my  son.  I  will  pray  for  thee.  If  need 
be,  I  will  die  for  thee.  Oh,  trust  to  me  ;  for  Christ 
has  sent  me  to  thee,  to  speak  of  hope,  forgiveness, 
and  salvation." 

Antiorus  stood  with  his  face  covered,  and  his  strong 
frame  shook  in  his  armour.  But  when  he  heard  the 
words  forgiveness  and  hope,  he  fell  on  the  ground, 
embraced  the  old  man's  knees,  and  wept  like  a  child. 
The  apostle  laid  his  hand  affectionately  on  that  noble 


A    LEGEND     OF    THE    APOSTLE    JOHN.  113 

head,  and  said,  with  a  heavenly  smile,  "  Ah,  now 
thou  art  baptized  again,  my  dear  son — baptized  in  thy 
tears.  The  Lord  bless  thee  and  keep  thee.  The 
Lord  lift  up  his  countenance  upon  thee,  and  give  thee 
peace." 

After  speaking  together  for  a  few  moments,  they 
retired  to  Miriam's  grave,  and  there  the  young  man 
laid  open  all  his  sinning  and  suffering  heart.  In  con 
clusion,  he  said,  "  There  seems  ever  to  be  within  me 
two  natures  ;  one  for  good,  and  one  for  evil."  "  It  is 
even  thus  with  us  all,"  replied  the  apostle.  "  But 
thou,  my  father,"  rejoined  Antiorus,  "  thou  canst  not 
imagine  how  I  have  sinned,  or  what  I  have  resisted. 
Thy  blood  flows  so  calmly.  Thou  art  too  pure  and 
holy  to  be  tempted  as  I  have  been." 

"  Hush,  hush,  I  pray  thee,  my  son,"  replied  the 
apostle.  "  How  I  have  struggled  is  known  only  to 
Him  who  seeth  all  the  secrets  of  the  heart*  Because 
my  blood  has  not  always  flowed  so  calmly,  therefore, 
my  son,  have  I  been  peculiarly  drawn  toward  thee  in 
the  bonds  of  pity  and  of  sympathy.  Thy  wild  am 
bition,  thy  impetuous  anger,  are  no  strangers  in  my 
own  experience  ;  and  that  midnight  temptation  so 
brought  back  a  scene  of  my  youth,  that  it  seemed 
almost  like  a  page  of  my  own  history."  "  Of  thine  .'" 
exclaimed  the  young  man,  with  an  accent  of  strong 
surprise.  In  a  voice  low  and  tender,  he  added,  "  Then 
thou  hast  loved  ?"  The  white-haired  man  bowed  his 
head  upon  his  hands,  and  with  strong  emotion  an 
swered,  "  Oh,  how  deeply,  how  tenderly." 

There  was  silence  for  some  moments,  interrupted 
only  by  the  quiet  lullaby  of  the  waters,  rippling  in  the 
10* 


114  A   LEGEND     OF    THE    APOSTLE    JOHN. 

dell  below.  Pressing  the  apostle's  hand,  Antiorus 
said,  in  a  low  reverential  tone,  "  Does  love  end  here, 
my  father  ?  Shall  we  know  our  loved  ones  among 
the  angels  of  heaven  ?  Do  they  witness  our  conflicts  ? 
Do  they  rejoice  over  our  victories  ?" 

Hark  !  Is  that  music  in  the  air  ?  Or  is  it  a  memory 
of  the  psalm  ?  How  distinctly  it  swells  forth  in  joy, 
how  sweetly  it  breathes  of  love  and  peace  !  The  list 
ener  smiles ;  for  he  seems  to  hear  a  harp  in  the  heavens. 

The  two  beautiful  ones,  the  young  and  the  old,  stand 
with  clasped  hands,  looking  upward  into  the  sky. 
The  countenance  of  the  apostle  was  radiant  with 
spiritual  light,  as  he  said,  "  Let  us  believe  and  hope." 
They  knelt  down,  embracing  each  other,  and  offered 
a  silent  prayer,  in  the  name  of  him  who  had  brought 
immortality  to  light. 

Antiorus  bade  his  wild  comrades  farewell,  with  ex 
hortations,  to  which  the  apostle  added  words  that  were 
blessed  in  their  gentleness  ;  for  the  former  leader  of 
the  band  turned  from  the  evil  of  his  ways,  and  became 
a  zealous  Christian.  The  young  Greek  went  to  the 
church  in  Corinth,  bearing  affectionate  credentials  from 
the  beloved  apostle.  Many  years  after,  hearing  that 
the  family  of  Miriam  had  gone  to  a  Syrian  city,  he 
returned  to  Ephesus.  The  cross  had  been  removed 
from  the  mountain,  but  he  planted  another  on  the  well- 
remembered  spot.  Near  by,  he  built  a  little  cabin  of 
boughs,  where  an  opening  in  the  thick  groves  gave 
glimpses  of  the  marble  columns  of  Ephesus,  and  the 
harbour  of  Panormous  sparkling  in  the  sun.  Many 
came  to  talk  with  him  concerning  the  doctrines  of 
Plato,  arid  the  new  truths  taught  by  Jesus.  He  received 


A   LEGEND     OF    THE    APOSTLE    JOHN.  115 

them  all  with  humility  and  love  ;  but  otherwise  he 
mixed  not  with  the  world,  except  to  visit  the  sick  and 
suffering,  or  to  meet  with  the  increasing  band  of  Chris 
tians  in  the  plain  below.  He  was  an  old  man  when 
he  died.  The  name  of  Miriam  had  not  passed  his  lips 
for  many  years  ;  but  when  they  buried  him  beside  the 
mountain  cross,  they  found  a  ringlet  of  black  hair  in 
a  little  ivory  casement  next  his  heart. 


THE  BELOVED  TUNE. 

Fragments  of  a  Life,   in  Small  Pictures 

A  child,  a  friend,  a  wife,  whose  soft  heart  sings 

In  unison  with  ours,  breeding  its  future  wings. — LEIGH  HUNT. 

IN  a  pleasant  English  garden,  on  a  rustic  chair  of 
intertwisted  boughs,  are  seated  two  happy  human 
beings.  Beds  of  violets  perfume  the  air,  and  the 
verdant  hedge-rows  stand  sleepily  in  the  moonlight. 
A  guitar  lies  on  the  greensward,  but  it  is  silent  now, 
for  all  is  hushed  in  the  deep  stillness  of  the  heart. 
That  youthful  pair  are  whispering  their  first  acknowl 
edgment  of  mutual  love.  With  them  is  now  unfold 
ing  life's  best  and  brightest  blossom,  so  beautiful  and 
so  transient,  but  leaving,  as  it  passes  into  fruit,  a  fra 
grance  through  all  the  paths  of  memory. 

And  now  the  garden  is  alone  in  the  moonlight. 
The  rustic  bench,  and  the  whispering  foliage  of  the 
tree,  tell  each  other  no  tales  of  those  still  kisses,  those 
gentle  claspings,  and  all  the  fervent  language  of  the 
heart.  But  the  young  man  has  carried  them  away 
in  his  soul ;  and  as  he  sits  alone  at  his  chamber  win 
dow,  gazing  in  the  mild  face  of  the  moon,  he  feels, 
as  all  do  who  love  and  are  beloved,  that  he  is  a  better 
man,  and  will  henceforth  be  a  wiser  and  a  purer  one. 
The  worlds  within  and  without  are  veiled  in  transfig 
ured  glory,  and  breathe  together  in  perfect  harmony. 


THE    BELOVED    TUNE.  117 

For  all  these  high  aspirations,  this  deep  tide  of  ten 
derness,  this  fulness  of  beauty,  there  is  but  one  utter 
ance  ;  the  yearning  heart  must  overflow  in  music. 
Faint  and  uncertain  come  the  first  tones  of  the  guitar, 
breathing  as  softly  as  if  they  responded  to  the  mere 
touch  of  the  moonbeams.  But  now  the  rich  manly 
voice  has  united  with  them,  and  a  clear  spiritual 
melody  flows  forth,  plaintive  and  impassioned,  the 
modulated  breath  of  indwelling  life  and  love.  All 
the  secrets  of  the  garden,  secrets  that  painting  and 
poetry  had  no  power  to  reveal,  have  passed  into  the 
song. 

At  first,  the  young  musician  scarcely  noticed  the 
exceeding  beauty  of  the  air  he  was  composing.  But 
a  passage  that  came  from  the  deepest  of  the  heart,  re 
turned  to  the  heart  again,  and  filled  it  with  its  own 
sweet  echoes.  He  lighted  a?  lamp,  and  rapidly  trans 
ferred  the  sounds  to  paper.  Thus  has  he  embodied 
the  floating  essence  of  his  soul,  and  life's  brightest 
inspiration  cannot  pass  away  with  the  moonlight  and 
the  violet-fragrance  that  veiled  its  birth. 

But  obstacles  arise  in  the  path  of  love.  Dora's 
father  has  an  aversion  to  foreigners,  and  Alessandro 
is  of  mingled  Italian  and  German  parentage.  He 
thinks  of  worldly  substance,  as  fathers  are  wont  to 
do ;  and  Alessandro  is  simply  leader  of  an  orchestra, 
and  a  popular  composer  of  guitar  music.  There  is  a 
richer  lover  in  question,  and  the  poor  musician  is  sad 
with  hope  deferred,  though  he  leans  ever  trustfully  on 
Dora's  true  heart.  He  labours  diligently  in  his  voca 
tion,  gives  lessons  day  by  day,  and  listens  with  all 
patience  to  the  learner's  trip-hammer  measurement  of 


118  THE    BELOVED    TUNE. 

time,  while  the  soul  within  him  yearns  to  pour  itself 
forth  in  floods  of  improvised  melody.  He  composes 
music  industriously,  too ;  but  it  is  for  the  market,  and 
slowly  and  reluctantly  the  offended  tones  take  their 
places  per  order.  Not  thus  came  they  in  that  inspir 
ed  song,  where  love  first  breathed  its  bright  but  timid 
joy  over  vanished  doubts  and  fears.  The  manuscript 
of  that  melody  is  laid  away,  and  seldom  can  the  anx 
ious  lover  bear  its  voice. 

But  two  years  of  patient  effort  secures  his  prize. 
The  loved  one  has  come  to  his  humble  home,  with 
her  bridal  wreath  of  jessamine  and  orange-buds.  He 
sits  at  the  same  window,  and  the  same  moon  shines 
on  him  ;  but  he  is  no  longer  alone.  A  beautiful  head 
leans  on  his  breast,  and  a  loving  voice  says,  "  Dearest 
Alessandro,  sing  me  a  song  of  thine  own  composing." 
He  was  at  that  moment  thinking  of  the  rustic  seat  in 
her  father's  garden,  of  violets  breathing  to  the  moon 
light,  of  Dora's  first  bashful  confession  of  love  ;  and 
smiling  with  a  happy  consciousness,  he  sought  for 
the  written  voice  of  that  blissful  hour.  But  he  will 
not  tell  her  when  it  was  composed,  lest  it  should  not 
say  so  much  to  her  heart,  as  it  does  to  his.  He  be 
gins  by  singing  other  songs,  which  drawing-room 
misses  love  for  their  tinkling  sweetness.  Dora  listens 
well  pleased,  and  sometimes  says,  "  That  is  pretty, 
Alessandro  ;  play  it  again."  But  now  comes  the 
voice  of  melting,  mingling  souls.  That  melody,  so 
like  sunshine,  and  rainbows,  and  bird-warbling,  after 
a  summer  shower,  with  rain  drops  from  the  guitar  at 
intervals,  and  all  subsiding  into  blissful,  dreamy  moon 
light.  Dora  leans  forward,  gazing  earnestly  in  his 


THE    BELOVED    TUNE.  119 

face,  and  with  beaming  tearful  eyes,  exclaims,  "  Oh, 
that  is  very  beautiful !  That  is  my  tune."  "  Yes,  it 
is  indeed  thy  tune,"  replied  the  happy  husband  ;  and 
when  she  had  heard  its  history,  she  knew  why  it  had 
seemed  so  like  echoes  of  her  own  deepest  heart. 

Time  has  passed,  and  Alessandro  sits  by  Dora's 
bed-side,  their  eyes  looking  into  each  other  through 
happy  tears.  Their  love  is  crowned  with  life's  deep 
est,  purest  joy,  its  most  heavenly  emotion.  Their 
united  lives  have  re-appeared  in  a  new  existence  ; 
and  they  feel  that  without  this  rich  experience  the 
human  heart  can  never  know  one  half  its  wealth  of 
love.  Long  sat  the  father  in  that  happy  stillness,  and. 
wist  not  that  angels  near  by  smiled  when  he  touched 
the  soft  down  of  the  infant's  arm,  or  twined  its  little 
finger  over  his,  and  looked  his  joyful  tenderness 
into  the  mother's  eyes.  The  tear-dew  glistened  on 
those  long  dark  fringes,  when  he  took  up  his  guitar 
and  played  the  beloved  tune.  He  had  spoken  no  word 
to  his  child.  These  tones  were  the  first  sounds  with 
which  he  welcomed  her  into  the  world. 

A  few  months  glide  away,  and  the  little  Fioretta 
knows  the  tune  for  herself.  She  claps  her  hands  and 
crows  at  sight  of  the  guitar,  and  all  changing  emo 
tions  show  themselves  in  her  dark  melancholy  eyes, 
and  on  her  little  tremulous  lips.  Play  not  too  sadly, 
thou  fond  musician  ;  for  this  little  soul  is  a  portion  of 
thine  own  sensitive  being,  more  delicately  tuned.  Ah, 
see  now  the  grieved  lip,  and  the  eyes  swimming  in 
tears  !  Change,  change  to  a  gayer  measure  !  for  the 
little  heart  is  swelling  too  big  for  its  bosom.  There, 
now  she  laughs  and  crows  again  !  Yet  plaintive  mu- 


120  THE    BELOVED    TUNE. 

sic  is  her  choice,  and  especially  the  beloved  tune.  As 
soon  as  she  can  toddle  across  the  room,  she  welcomes 
papa  with  a  shout,  and  runs  to  bring  the  guitar,  which 
mother  must  help  her  carry,  lest  she  break  it  in  her 
zeal.  If  father  mischievously  tries  other  tunes  than 
her  favourites,  she  shakes  her  little  curly  head,  and 
trots  her  feet  impatiently.  But  when  he  touches  the 
first  notes  he  ever  played  to  her,  she  smiles  and  lis 
tens  seriously,  as  if  she  heard  her  own  being  prophe 
sied  in  music.  As  she  grows  older,  the  little  lady 
evinces  a  taste  right  royal  ;  for  she  must  needs  eat  her 
supper  to  the  accompaniment  of  sweet  sounds.  It  is 
beautiful  to  see  her  in  her  night-gown,  seated  demure 
ly  in  her  small  arm-chair,  one  little  naked  foot  uncon 
sciously  beating  time  to  the  tune.  But  if  the  music 
speaks  too  plaintively,  the  big  tears  roll  silently  down, 
and  the  porringer  of  milk,  all  unheeded,  pours  its 
treasures  on  the  floor.  Then  come  smothering  kisses 
from  the  happy  father  and  mother,  and  love-claspings 
with  her  little  soft  arms.  As  the  three  sit  thus  inter 
twined,  the  musician  says  playfully,  "  Ah,  this  is  the 
perfect  chord  !" 

Three  years  pass  away,  and  the  scene  is  changed. 
There  is  discord  now  where  such  sweet  harmony  pre 
vailed.  The  light  of  Dora's  eyes  is  dim  with  weep 
ing,  and  Fioretta  "has  caught  the  trick  of  grief,  and 
sighs  amid  her  playthings."  Once,  when  she  had 
waited  long  for  the  beloved  father,  she  ran  to  him 
with  the  guitar,  and  he  pushed  her  away,  sayinsr  an 
grily,  "  Go  to  bed  ;  why  did  your  mother  keep  you  up 
so  long?"  The  sensitive  little  being,  so  easily  re 
pulsed,  went  to  her  pillow  in  tears  ;  and  after  that, 


THE    BELOVKD    TUNE.  121 

she  no  more  ran  to  him  with  music  in  her  hand,  in 
her  eye,  and  in  her  voice.     Hushed  now  is  the  belov 
ed  tune.     To  the  unhappy  wife  it  seems  a  mockery  to 
ask  for  it ;  and  Alessandro  seldom  touches  his  guitar  ; 
he  says  he  is  obliged  to  play  enough   for  his   bread, 
withput  playing  for  his  family  at  home.     At  the  glee- 
club  the  bright  wine  has  tempted  him,  and  he  is  slow 
ly  burying  heart  and  soul  in  the  sepulchre  of  the  body. 
Is  there  no  way  to  save  this  beautiful  son  of  genius 
and  feeling  ?     Dora  at  first  pleads  with  him  tenderly ; 
but  made  nervous  with  anxiety  and  sorrow,  she  at  last 
speaks  words  that  would  have  seemed  impossible  to 
her  when  she   was   so   happy,  seated  on  the    rustic 
chair,  in  the   moonlighted  garden  ;  and  then  comes 
the  sharp  sorrow,  which  a  generous  heart  always  feels 
when  it  has  so  spoken  to  a  cherished  friend.     In  such 
moments  of  contrition,  memory  turns  with  fond  sad 
ness  to  the  beloved  tune.     Fior3tta,  whose   little   fin 
gers  must  stretch  wide  to  reach  an  octave,  is  taught  to 
play  it  on  the  piano,  while  mother  sings  to  her  accom 
paniment,  in  their  lonely  hours.     After  such  seasons, 
a  tenderer  reception  always  greets  the  wayward  hus 
band  ;  but  his  eyes,  dulled  by  dissipation,  no  longer 
perceive  the  delicate  shadings  of  love   in  those  home 
pictures,  once  so  dear  to  him.     The  child  is  afraid  of 
her  father,  and  this  vexes  him;  so  a  strangeness  has 
grown  up  between   the   two  playmates,  and  casts   a 
shadow  over  all  their  attempts  at  joy.     One  day  Ales 
sandro  came  home  as  twilight  was  passing  into  even 
ing.     Fioretta  had  eaten  her  supper,  and  sat  on  her 
mother's    lap,    chatting  merrily  ;  but  the  little  clear 
voice  hushed,  as  sooa  as  father's  step  was  heard  ap- 
11 


122  THE    BELOVED    TUNE. 

preaching.  He  entered  with  flushed  cheek  and  un 
steady  motions,  an i  threw  himself  full  length  on  the 
sofa,  grurnbling  that  it  was  devilish  dismal  there. 
Dora  answered  hastily,  "  When  a  man  has  made  his 
home  dismal,  if  he  don't  like  it,  he  had  better  stay 
where  he  finds  more  pleasure."  The  next  moment 
she  would  have  given  worlds  if  she  had  not  spoken 
such  words.  Her  impulse  was  to  go  and  fall  on  his 
neck,  and  ask  forgiveness ;  but  he  kicked  over  Fioret- 
ta's  little  chair  with  such  violence,  that  the  kindly  im 
pulse  turned  back,  and  hid  itself  in  her  widowed 
heart.  There  sat  they  silently  in  the  twilight,  and 
Dora's  tears  fell  on  the  little  head  that  rested  on  her 
bosom.  I  know  not  what  spirit  guided  the  child  ; 
perhaps  in  her  busy  little  heart  she  remembered  how 
her  favourite  sounds  used  to  heighten  all  love,  and 
cheer  all  sorrow  :  perhaps  angels  came  and  took  her 
by  the  hand.  But  so  it  was,  she  slipped  down  from 
mother's  lap,  and  scrambling  up  on  the  music-stool, 
began  to  play  the  tune  which  had  been  taught  her  in 
private  hours,  and  which  the  father  had  not  heard  for 
many  months.  Wonderfully  the  little  creature  touched 
the  keys  with  her  tiny  fingers,  and  ever  and  anon  her 
weak  but  flexible  voice  chimed  in  with  a  pleasant 
harmony.  Alessandro  raised  his  head,  and  looked 
and  listened.  "  God  bless  her  dear  little  soul  !"  he 
exclaimed  ;  "  can  she  play  it  ?  God  bless  her  !  God 
bless  her!"  He  clasped  the  darling  to  his  breast,  and 
kissed  her  again  and  again.  Then  seeing  the  little 
overturned  chair,  once  so  sacred  to  his  heart,  he 
caught  it  up,  kissed  it  vehemently,  arid  burst  into  a 
fl  >od  of  tears.  Dora  threw  her  arms  round  him,  and 


THE    BELOVED   TUNE.  123 

said  softly,  "  Dear  Alessandro,  forgive  me  that  I  spoke 
so  unkindly."  He  pressed  her  hand,  and  answered 
in  a  stifled  voice,  "  Forgive  me,  Dora.  God  bless  the 
little  angel !  Never  again  will  father  push  away  her 
little  chair."  As  they  stand  weeping  on  each  other's 
necks,  two  little  soft  arms  encircle  their  knees,  and  a 
small  voice,  says,  "  Kiss  Fietta."  They  raise  her  up, 
and  fold  her  in  long  embraces.  Alessandro  carries 
her  to  her  bed,  as  in  times  of  old,  and  says  cheerful 
ly,  "  No  more  wine,  dear  Dora  ;  no  more  wine.  Our 
child  has  saved  me." 

But  when  discord  once  enters  a  domestic  paradise, 
it  is  not  easily  dispelled.  Alessandro  occasionally 
feels  the  want  of  the  stimulus  to  which  he  has  become 
accustomed,  and  the  corroding  appetite  sometimes 
makes  him  gloomy  and  petulant.  Dora  does  not 
make  sufficient  allowance  for  this,  and  her  own  na 
ture  being  quick  and  sensitive,  she  sometimes  gives 
abrupt  answers,  or  betrays  impatience  by  hasty  mo 
tions.  Meanwhile  Alessandro  is  busy,  with  some  se 
cret  work.  The  door  of  his  room  is  often  locked,  and 
Dora  is  half  displeased  that  he  will  not  tell  her  why ; 
but  all  her  questions  he  answers  only  with  a  kiss  and 
a  smile.  And  now  the  Christmas  morning  comes, 
and  Fioretta  rises  bright  and  early  to  see  what  Santa 
Glaus  has  put  in  her  stocking.  She  comes  running 
with  her  apron  full,  and  gives  mother  a  package,  on 
which  is  written,  "  A  merry  Christmas  and  a  Happy 
New  Year  to  my  beloved  wife."  She  opens  it,  and 
reads  "  Dearest  Dora,  I  have  made  thee  a  music-box. 
When  I  speak  hastily  to  my  loved  ones,  I  pray  thee 
wind  it  up  ;  and  when  I  see  the  spark  kindling  in  thy 


124  THE    BELOVED   TUNE. 

eyes,  I  will  do  the  same.  Thus,  dearest,  let  memory 
teach  patience  unto  love."  Dora  winds  up  the  music- 
box,  and  lo,  a  spirit  sits  Avithin,  playing  the  beloved 
tune  !  She  puts  her  hand  within  her  husband's,  and 
they  look  at  each  other  with  affectionate  humility. 
But  neither  of  them  speak  the  resolution  they  form, 
while  the  voice  of  their  early  love  falls  on  their  ears, 
like  the  sounds  of  a  fairy  guitar. 

Memory,  thus  aided,  does  teach  patience  unto  love. 
No  slackened  string  now  sends  discord  through  the 
domestic  tune.  Fioretta  is  passing  into  maidenhood, 
beautiful  as  an  opening  flower.  She  practises 
on  the  guitar,  while  the  dear  good  father  sits  with 
his  arm  across  her  chair,  singing  from  a  manuscript 
tune  of  her  own  composing.  In  his  eyes,  this  first  ef 
fort  of  her  genius  cannot  seem  otherwise  than  beau 
tiful.  Ever  and  anon  certain  notes  occur,  and  they 
look  at  each  other  and  smile,  and  Dora  smiles  also. 
"  Fioretta  could  not  help  bringing  in  that  theme,"  she 
says,  "  for  it  was  sung  to  her  in  her  cradle."  The 
father  replies,  "  But  the  variations  are  extremely  pret 
ty  and  tasteful ;"  and  a  flush  of  delight  goes  over  the 
expressive  face  of  his  child.  The  setting  sun  glances 
across  the  guitar,  and  just  touches  a  rose  in  the  maid 
en's  bosom.  The  happy  mother  watches  the  dear 
group  earnestly,  and  sketches  rapidly  on  the  paper 
before  her.  And  now  she,  too,  works  privately  in  her 
own  room,  and  has  a  secret  to  keep.  On  Fioretta's 
fifteenth  birth-day,  she  sends  by  her  hands,  a  covered 
present  to  the  father.  He  opens  it  and  finds  a  lovely 
picture  of  himself  and  daughter,  the  rose  and  the 
guitar.  The  sunlight  glances  across  them  in  a  bright 


THE    BELOVED    TUNE.  125 

shower  of  fine  soft  rays,  and  touches  on  the  manu 
script,  as  with  a  golden  finger,  the  few  beloved  notes, 
which  had  made  them  smile.  As  the  father  shrined 
within  his  divine  art  the  memory  of  their  first  hour 
of  mutual  love,  so  the  mother  has  embalmed  in  her 
beautiful  art  the  first  musical  echo  from  the  heart  of 
their  child. 

But  now  the  tune  of  life  passes  into  a  sadder  mode. 
Dora,  pale  and  emaciated,  lies  propped  up  with  pil 
lows,  her  hand  clasped  within  Fioretta's,  her  head 
resting  on  her  husband's  shoulder. 

All  is  still — still.  Their  souls  are  kneeling  rever 
ently  before  the  Angel  of  Death.  Heavy  sunset 
guns  from  a  neighbouring  fort,  boom  through  the  air. 
The  vibrations  shake  the  music-box,  and  it  starts  up 
like  a  spirit,  and  plays  the  cherished  tune.  Dora 
presses  her  daughter's  hand,  and  she,  with  a  faint 
smile,  warbles  the  words  they  have  so  often  sung. 
The  dying  one  looks  up  to  Alessandro,  with  a  deep 
expression  of  unearthly  tenderness.  Gazing  thus, 
with  one  long-drawn  sigh,  her  affectionate  soul  floats 
away  on  the  wings  of  that  ethereal  song.  The  me 
mory  that  taught  endurance  unto  love  leaves  a  lu 
minous  expression,  a  farewell  glory,  on  the  lifeless 
countenance.  Attendant  angels  smile,  and  their 
blessing  falls  on  the  mourners'  hearts,  like  dew  from 
heaven.  Fioretta  remains  to  the  widowed  one,  the 
graceful  blossom  of  his  lonely  life,  the  incarnation 
of  his  beloved  tune. 
11* 


ELIZABETH  WILSON. 

THB  following  story  is  founded  upon  facts  which  occurred  during  the 
latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  century.  The  leading  incidents  are  still  in  the 
memory  of  many  of  the  inhabitants  of  Chester  county,  Pennsylvania. 

ELIZABETH  WILSON  was  of  humble,  though  respect 
able  parentage.  From  infancy  she  was  remarked  for 
beauty,  and  a  delicate  nervous  organization.  Her 
brother  William,  two  years  older,  was  likewise  a 
handsome  child,  with  a  more  sturdy  and  vigorous 
frame.  He  had  a  gentle,  loving  heart,  which  expend 
ed  its  affections  most  lavishly  on  his  mother  and  lit 
tle  sister.  In  their  early  years,  Lizzy  was  his  con 
stant  shadow.  If  he  went  to  the  barn  to  hunt  for  eggs, 
the  little  one  was  sure  to  run  prattling  along  with 
him,  hand  in  hand.  If  he  pelted  walnuts  from  the 
tree,  she  was  sure  to  be  there  with  her  little  basket, 
to  pick  them  up.  They  sat  on  the  same  blue  bench 
to  eat  their  bread  and  milk,  and  with  the  first  jack- 
knife  he  ever  owned,  the  affectionate  boy  carved  on  it 
the  letters  W.  and  E.  for  William  and  Elizabeth. 
The  sister  lavishly  returned  his  love.  If  a  pie  was 
baked  for  her,  she  would  never  break  it  till  Willie 
came  to  share ;  and  she  would  never  go  to  sleep  un 
less  her  arms  were  about  his  neck. 

Their  mother,  a  woman  of  tender  heart  and  yield, 
ing  temper,  took  great  delight  in  her  handsome  chil- 


ELIZABETH     WILSON.  127 

dren.     Often,  when  she  went  out  to  gather  chips  or 

brush,  she  stopped  to  look  in  upon  them,  as  they  sat 

on  the  blue  bench,  feeding  each  other  from  their  little 

porringers  of  bread  and  milk.     The  cross-lights  from 

side-window  threw  on  them  a  reflection  of  the  lilac 

ashes,  so   that  they  seemed  seated  in  a  flowering 

rove.     It  was  the  only  picture  the  poor  woman  had  ; 

but  none  of  the  old  masters  could  have  equalled  its 

beauty. 

The  earliest  and  strongest  development  of  Lizzy's 
character  was  love.  She  was  always  caressing  her 
kitten,  or  twining  her  arms  about  Willie's  neck,  or 
leaning  on  her  mother's  lap,  begging  for  a  kiss.  A 
dozen  times  a  day  she  would  look  earnestly  into  her 
mother's  eyes,  and  inquire,  most  beseechingly,  "  Does 
you  love  your  little  Lizzy  ?"  And  if  the  fond  answer 
did  not  come  as  promptly  as  usual,  her  beautiful  eyes, 
always  plaintive  in  their  expression,  would  begin  to 
swim  with  tears.  This  "  strong  necessity  of  loving," 
which  so  pervades  the  nature  of  woman,  the  fair  child 
inherited  from  her  gentle  mother  ;  and  from  her,  too, 
inherited  a  deficiency  of  firmness,  of  which  such  na 
tures  have  double  need.  To  be  every  thing,  and  do 
every  thing,  for  those  she  loved,  was  the  paramount 
law  of  her  existence. 

Such  a  being  was  of  course  born  for  sorrow.  Even 
in  infancy,  the  discerning  eye  might  already  see  its 
prophetic  shadow  resting  on  her  expressive  counte 
nance.  The  first  great  affliction  of  her  life  was  the 
death  of  her  mother,  when  she  was  ten  years  old. 
Her  delicate  nerves  were  shattered  by  the  blow,  and 
were  never  after  fully  restored  to  health.  The  dead 


128  ELIZABETH     WILSON. 

body  of  her  beloved  mother,  with  large  coins  on  the 
eye-lids,  was  so  awfully  impressed  on  her  imagination, 
that  the  image  followed  her  everywhere,  even  into  her 
dreams.  As  she  slept,  tears  often  dropped  from  her 
tremulous  eye-lashes,  and  nightmare  visions  made  her 
start  and  scream.  There  was  no  gentle  voice  near  to 
soothe  her  perturbed  spirit ;  none  to  throw  an  angel's 
shining  robe  over  the  hideous  spectre,  that  lay  so  cold 
and  stiff  in  the  halls  of  memory.  Her  father  fed  and 
clothed  his  children,  and  caused  them  to  be  taught  to 
read  and  write.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  anything 
more  was  included  in  parental  duty.  Of  clothing  for 
the  mind,  or  food  for  the  heart,  he  knew  nothing ;  for 
his  own  had  never  been  clothed  and  fed.  He  came 
home  weary  from  daily  toil,  ate  his  supper,  dozed  in 
his  chair  awhile,  and  then  sent  the  children  to  bed. 
A  few  times,  after  the  death  of  his  wife,  he  kissed 
his  daughter ;  but  she  never  ventured  to  look  into  his 
eyes,  and  ask,  "  Does  you  love  your  little  Lizzy  ?" 
Willie  was  her  only  consolation ;  and  all  he  could  do 
was  to  weep  passionately  with  her,  at  everything  which 
reminded  them  of  their  mother. 

Nature,  as  usual,  reflected  back  the  image  of  the 
soul  that  gazed  upon  her.  To  Lizzy's  excited  mind, 
everything  appeared  mysterious  and  awful,  and  all 
sounds  seemed  to  wail  and  sigh.  The  rustling  of  the 
trees  in  the  evening  wind  went  through  her,  like  the 
voice  of  a  spirit ;  and  when  the  nights  were  bright, 
she  would  hide  her  head  in  her  brother's  bosom,  and 
whisper,  "  Willie,  dear,  I  wish  the  moon  would  not 
keep  looking  at  me.  She  seems  to  say  something  to 
me ;  and  it  makes  me  afraid." 


ELIZABETH     WILSON.  129 

All  susceptible  souls  have  felt  thus  ;  particularly 
when  under  the  influence  of  grief. 

"  The  snow  of  deepest  silence 

O'er  everything  doth  fall, 
So  beautiful  and  quiet, 

And  yet  so  like  a  pall — 
As  if  all  life  were  ended, 

And  rest  were  come  to  all." 

Such  a  state  of  feeling,  long  indulged,  could  not  be 
otherwise  than  injurious  to  a  bodily  frame  originally 
delicate.  The  sensitive  child  soon  became  subject  to 
fits,  the  severity  of  which  at  times  threatened  her  life. 
On  coming  out  of  these  spasms,  with  piteous  tones 
and  bewildered  looks,  she  would  ask,  "  Where  is  my 
mother  ?" 

At  the  end  of  a  year,  an  important  change  came 
over  the  lonely  household.  A  strong  active  step 
mother  was  introduced.  Her  loud  voice  and  energetic 
tread,  so  different  from  her  own  quiet  and  timid  mother, 
frightened  poor  Lizzy.  Her  heart  more  than  ever 
turned  back  upon  itself,  and  listened  to  the  echoes  of 
its  own  yearnings.  Willie,  being  old  enough  to  work 
on  the  farm,  was  now  absent  most  of  the  day ;  and 
the  fair  girl,  so  richly  endowed  by  nature  with  all 
deep  feelings  and  beautiful  capacities,  so  lavish  of  her 
affections,  so  accustomed  to  free  outpourings  of  love, 
became  reserved,  and  apparently  cold  and  stupid. 
When  the  step-mother  gave  birth  to  an  infant,  the 
fountain  of  feeling  was  again  unsealed.  It  was  her 
delight  to  watch  the  babe,  and  minister  to  its  wants. 
But  this  development  of  the  affections  was  likewise 
destined  to  be  nipped  in  the  bud.  The  step-mother, 


130  ELIZABETH     WILSON. 

though  by  no  means  hard-hearted,  was  economical 
and  worldly-wise.  She  deemed  it  most  profitable  to 
employ  a  healthy,  stout  niece  of  her  own,  somewhat 
older  than  Elizabeth,  and  to  have  her  step-daughter 
bound  out  in  some  family  where  she  could  do  light 
labour.  It  was  also  determined  that  William  should 
go  to  service ;  and  his  place  of  destination  was  fifty 
miles  from  that  of  his  sister. 

The  news  of  this  arrangement  was  very  bitter  to 
the  children.  Both  answered  their  father,  very  meek 
ly,  that  they  were  willing  to  go  ;  but  their  voices 
were  deep,  sad,  and  almost  inaudible.  Without 
saying  another  word,  the  boy  put  on  his  hat,  and  the 
girl  her  sun-bonnet,  and  taking  each  other  by  the 
hand,  they  went  forth,  and  roamed  silently  to  their 
mother's  grave.  There  they  stood  for  a  long  time, 
in  silence,  and  their  tears  dropped  fast  on  the  green 
sod.  At  last,  Elizabeth  sobbed  out,  "  Oh,  if  dear 
mother  was  alive,  Willie,  we  should  not  have  to  go 
away  from  home."  But  Willie  could  only  answer  by 
a  fresh  outburst  of  grief.  A  little  clump  of  wild 
flowers  nodded  over  the  edge  of  the  mound.  The 
affectionate  boy  cut  two  of  them,  and  said,  "  Let  us 
keep  these,  Lizzy,  to  remember  mother  by." 

The  flowers  were  carefully  pressed  between  the 
leaves  of  Lizzy's  Testament,  and  when  the  sorrowful 
day  of  parting  came,  one  was  nicely  folded  in  a  paper 
for  Willie.  "  Now,  dear  sis,  give  me  that  nice  little 
curl,"  said  he,  putting  his  finger  on  a  soft,  golden- 
brown  ringlet,  that  nestled  close  to  her  ear,  and  lay 
caressingly  on  her  downy  cheek.  She  glanced  in  the 
fragment  of  a  glass,  which  served  them  for  a  mirror,  and 


ELIZABETH    WILSON.  131 

with  eyes  brimful  of  tears  she  answered,  "  Oh,  Willie, 
I  cannot  give  you  that.  Don't  you  remember  how 
dear  mother  used  to  wet  my  head  all  over  with  cold 
water,  to  make  my  hair  curl  ?  She  used  to  laugh 
when  I  shook  my  head,  and  made  the  curls  go  all 
over  my  forehead  ;  and  she  would  kiss  that  little  curl 
in  particular.  She  said  it  was  such  a  darling  little 
curl."  Thus  childishly  did  the  innocent  ones  speak 
together.  The  brother  twisted  the  favorite  curl  round 
his  finger,  and  kissed  it,  and  a  bright  tear  fell  on  it, 
and  glittered  in  the  sunshine. 

William  left  home  a  few  days  earlier  than  his  sister, 
and  bitterly  did  the  lonely  one  sob  herself  to  sleep 
that  night.  She  shuddered  in  the  dark,  and  when 
the  moon  looked  in  at  the  window,  its  glance  seemed 
more  mournful  than  ever.  The  next  morning,  she 
fell  from  the  breakfast  table  in  a  fit  more  severe  than 
usual.  But  as  she  soon  recovered,  and  as  these 
spasms  now  occurred  only  at  distant  intervals,  her 
step-mother  thought  she  had  better  be  in  readiness  to 
depart  at  the  appointed  time. 

The  wagon  was  brought  to  the  door,  and  the  father 
said  to  her,  "  Lizzy,  put  on  your  bonnet,  and  bring 
your  bundle.  It  is  time  to  go."  Oh,  how  the  poor 
child  lingered  in  her  little  bed-room,  where  she  and 
Willie  slept  in  their  infant  days,  and  where  the  mother 
used  to  hear  them  say  their  prayers,  and  kiss  them 
both,  as  they  lay  folded  in  each  other's  arms.  To 
the  strong  step-mother  she  easily  said  good  bye  ;  but 
she  paused  long  over  the  cradle  of  her  baby-brother, 
and  kissed  each  of  his  little  fingers,  and  fondly  turned 
a  little  wave  of  sunny  hair  on  his  pure  white  forehead. 


132  ELIZABETH     WILSON. 

Her  heart  swelled,  and  she  had  to  swallow  hard  to  keep 
down  the  sobs ;  for  it  was  her  cradle,  and  she  was 
thinking  how  her  mother  used  to  sing  her  to  sleep. 
Her  father  spoke  to  her  in  a  tone  of  unusual  tenderness, 
as  if  he  too  remembered  her  infancy,  and  the  gentle 
one  who  used  to  rock  her  in  that  cradle.  "  Come, 
Lizzy,"  said  he,  "  it  is  time  to  go.  You  shall  come 
back  and  see  the  baby  before  long."  With  blinded 
eyes  she  stumbled  into  the  wagon,  and  turned  and 
looked  back  as  long  as  she  could  see  the  old  elm-tree 
by  her  bed-room  window,  where  all  the  summers  of 
her  young  life  she  had  watched  the  swallows  come 
and  go. 

It  is  a  dreary  fate  for  a  loving  and  sensitive  child 
to  be  bound  out  at  service  among  strangers,  even  if 
they  are  kind-hearted.  The  good  woman  of  the  house 
received  Lizzy  in  a  very  friendly  manner,  and  told 
her  to  make  herself  at  home.  But  the  word  only  sent 
a  mournful  echo  through  her  heart.  For  a  few  days, 
she  went  about  in  a  state  of  abstraction,  that  seemed 
like  absolute  stupidity.  Her  step-mother  had  pre 
pared  them  for  this,  by  telling  them  there  was  some 
thing  strange  about  Lizzy,  and  that  many  people 
thought  her  fits  affected  her  mind.  Being  of  coarser 
and  stronger  natures,  they  could  none  of  them  imagine 
that  the  slow  stagnation  of  the  heart  might  easily  dim 
the  light  of  intellect  in  a  creature  so  keenly  suscepti 
ble.  But  by  degrees  the  duties  required  of  her  roused 
her  faculties  into  greater  activity  ;  and  when  night 
came,  she  was  fortunately  too  weary  to  lie  awake  and 
weep.  Sometimes  she  dreamed  of  Willie,  and  her 
dreams  of  him  were  always  bright  and  pleasant ;  but 


ELIZABETH     WILSON.  133 

her  mother  sometimes  fondled  her  with  looks  of  love, 
and  sometimes  came  as  the  pale  cold  spectre.  Thus 
the  months  passed  slowly  away.  Her  father  came  to 
see  her  at  distant  intervals,  and  once  in  a  great  while, 
a  letter  came  from  Willie,  in  a  large  stiff  hand.  Un 
accustomed  to  writing,  he  could  not,  through  that  me 
dium,  tell  much  that  was  passing  in  his  heart.  That 
he  wanted  badly  to  see  his  sister,  and  often  kissed  the 
flower  they  plucked  from  the  dear  mother's  grave, 
was  the  substance  of  all  his  epistles. 

In  the  mean  time,  Lizzy  was  passing  into  woman 
hood.  Childhood  and  youth  kissed  each  other,  with 
new  and  glowing  beauty.  Her  delicate  cheeks  mant 
led  with  a  richer  colour,  and  her  deep  blue  eyes, 
shaded  with  long  fringes  of  the  darkest  brown,  looked 
out  upon  life  with  a  more  earnest  and  expressive  long 
ing.  Plain  and  scanty  garments  could  not  conceal 
the  graceful  outline  of  her  figure,  and  her  motions 
were  like  a  willow  in  the  breeze.  She  was  not  aware 
of  her  uncommon  loveliness,  though  she  found  it  plea 
sant  to  look  in  the  glass,  and  had  sometimes  heard 
strangers  say  to  each  other,  "  See  that  pretty  girl !" 

There  were  no  young  men  in  the  immediate  neigh 
bourhood,  and  she  had  not  been  invited  to  any  of  the 
rustic  dances  or  quilting  frolics.  One  bashful  lad  in 
the  vicinity  always  contrived  to  drive  his  cows  past 
the  house  where  she  lived,  and  eagerly  kept  watch 
for  a  glimpse  of  her,  as  she  went  to  the  barn  with  her 
milking  pails.  But  if  she  happened  to  pass  near 
enough  to  nod  and  smile,  his  cheeks  grew  red,  and  his 
voice  forsook  him.  She  could  not  know,  or  guess, 
that  he  would  lie  awake  long  that  night,  and  dream  of 
12 


134  ELIZABETH     WILSON. 

her  smile,  and  resolve  that  some  time  or  other  he 
would  have  courage  to  tell  her  how  handsome  she 
was,  and  how  the  sight  of  her  made  his  heart  throb. 
She  did  not  yet  know  that  she  could  love  anybody 
better  than  she  had  loved  Willie.  She  had  seen  her 
darling  brother  but  twice,  during  their  three  years  of 
separation  ;  but  his  image  was  ever  fresh  and  bright 
in  memory.  When  he  came  to  see  her,  she  felt  com 
pletely  happy.  While  he  gazed  upon  her  with  de 
lighted  eyes,  her  affectionate  nature  was  satisfied  with 
love :  for  it  had  not  yet  been  revealed  to  her  in  the 
melting  glance  of  passion.  Yet  the  insidious  power 
already  began  to  foreshadow  itself  in  vague  restless 
ness  and  romantic  musings.  For  she  was  at  an  age, 

"  To  feel  a  want,  yet  scarce  know  what  it  is ; 

To  seek  one  nature  that  is  always  new, 
Whose  glance  is  warmer  than  another's  kiss ; 
Such  longing  instinct  fills  the  mighty  scope 
Of  the  young  heart  with  one  mysterious  hope." 

At  last,  an  important  event  occurred  in  Lizzy's 
monotonous  existence.  A  young  girl  in  the  village 
was  to  be  married,  and  she  was  invited  to  the  quilting 
party.  It  was  the  first  invitation  of  the  kind  she  had 
ever  received,  and  of  course  it  occupied  her  thoughts 
day  and  night.  Could  she  have  foreseen  how  this 
simple  occurrence  would  affect  her  whole  future  des 
tiny,  she  would  have  pondered  over  it  still  more 
deeply.  The  bridegroom  brought  a  friend  with  him 
to  the  party,  a  handsome  dark-eyed  young  man,  clerk 
of  a  store  in  a  neighbouring  town.  Aware  of  his 
personal  attractions,  he  dressed  himself  with  peculiar 
care.  Elizabeth  had  never  seen  anything  so  elegant ; 


ELIZABETH     WILSON.  135 

and  the  moment  his  eye  glanced  on  her,  he  decided 
that  he  had  never  seen  anything  half  so  beautiful. 
He  devoted  himself  to  her  in  a  manner  sufficiently 
marked  to  excite  envy  ;  and  some  of  the  rich  farmers' 
daughters  made  critical  remarks  about  her  dress, 
which  they  concluded  was  passably  genteel,  for  a  girl 
who  lived  out  at  service.  However,  Lizzy  was  queen 
of  the  evening,  by  virtue  of  nature's  own  impress  of 
royalty.  When  the  quilt  was  finished,  romping 
games  were  introduced  according  to  the  fashion  of  the 
times ;  and  the  young  men  took  care  that  the  forfeits 
paid  by  the  pretty  girls  should  generally  involve  kiss 
ing  some  of  their  own  number.  Among  the  forfeits 
required  of  the  dark-eyed  stranger,  he  was  ordered  to 
beg  on  his  knees  for  the  identical  little  curl  that  Willie 
had  asked  of  his  sister.  In  the  midst  of  her  mirth- 
fulness,  this  brought  a  shadow  over  her  countenance, 
and  she  could  not  answer  playfully.  However,  this 
emotion  passed  away  with  the  moment,  and  she  be 
came  the  gayest  of  the  gay.  Never  before  had  she 
been  half  so  handsome,  for  never  before  had  she  been 
half  so  happy.  The  joyful  consciousness  of  pleasing 
everybody,  and  the  attractive  young  stranger  in  par 
ticular,  made  her  eyes  sparkle,  and  her  whole  coun 
tenance  absolutely  radiant  with  beauty.  When  the 
party  were  about  to  separate,  the  young  man  was 
very  assiduous  about  placing  her  shawl,  and  begged 
permission  to  accompany  her  home.  Little  was  said 
during  this  walk  ;  yet  enough  to  afford  entrance  into 
both  hearts  for  that  unquiet  passion,  which  tangles  the 
web  of  human  life  more  than  all  the  other  sentiments 
and  instincts  of  our  mysterious  being.  At  parting,  he 


136  ELIZABETH     WILSON. 

took  her  hand,  to  say  good  night.  He  continued  to 
hold  it,  and  leaning  against  the  gate,  they  stood  for  a 
few  moments,  gazing  at  the  clear,  silvery  orb  of  night. 
Ah,  how  different  the  moon  seemed  to  Lizzy  now ! 
Earth's  spectral  robe  had  changed  to  a  veiJ  of  glory. 
Her  bonnet  had  fallen  back,  and  the  evening  breeze 
played  gently  with  her  ringlets.  In  soft  insinuating 
tones,  the  young  man  said,  "  Will  you  not  give  me 
that  little  curl  I  asked  for  ?"  She  blushed  deeply 
and  answered,  in  her  child-like  way,  "  I  cannot  give 
you  that,  because  my  mother  used  to  kiss  it  so  often." 
"  No  wonder  she  kissed  it,"  he  replied  ;  "  it  looks  so 
roguish,  lying  there  on  your  pretty  cheek."  And  be 
fore  she  was  aware  of  it,  he  had  kissed  it  too.  Trem 
bling  and  confused,  she  turned  to  open  the  gate,  but 
he  held  it  fast,  until  she  had  promised  that  the  next 
time  he  came  she  would  give  him  one  of  her  curls. 

Poor  Lizzy  went  to  bed  that  night  with  an  intox 
icated  heart.  When  she  braided  her  hair  at  the  glass, 
next  morning,  she  smiled  and  blushed,  as  she  twined 
the  favourite  ringlet  more  carefully  than  ever.  She 
was  so  childishly  happy  with  her  pretty  little  curl ! 
The  next  Sunday  evening,  as  she  sat  at  the  window, 
she  heard  the  sound  of  a  flute.  He  had  promised  to 
bring  his  flute ;  and  he  had  not  forgotten  her.  She 
listened — it  came  nearer  and  nearer,  through  the  wood. 
Her  heart  beat  audibly,  for  it  was  indeed  the  hand 
some  dark-eyed  stranger. 

All  summer  long,  he  came  every  Sunday  afternoon  ; 
and  with  him  came  moonlight  walks,  and  flute-war- 
blings,  and  tender  whisperings,  and  glances,  such  as 
steal  away  a  woman's  heart.  This  was  the  fairy-land 


. 

ELIZABETH     WILSON.  137 

of  her  young  life.  She  had  somebody  now  into  whose 
eyes  she  could  gaze,  with  all  the  deep  tenderness  of 
her  soul,  and  ask,  "  Do  you  love  your  own  Lizzy  ?" 

The  young  man  did  love,  but  not  as  she  loved  him; 
for  hers  was  a  richer  nature,  and  gave  more  than  he 
could  return.  He  accompanied  her  to  her  father's, 
and  they  were  generally  understood  to  be  betrothed. 
He  had  not  seen  brother  William,  but  he  was  told  a 
thousand  affectionate  anecdotes  of  his  kind  good  heart. 
When  they  returned  from  the  visit  to  the  homestead, 
they  brought  with  them  the  little  blue  bench  marked 
w.  and  E.  Lizzy  was  proud  of  her  genteel  lover  ;  and 
the  only  drop  which  it  now  seemed  possible  to  add  to 
her  cup  of  happiness  was  to  introduce  him  to  William. 
But  her  brother  was  far  off;  and  when  the  autumn 
came,  her  betrothed  announced  the  necessity  of  going 
to  a  distant  city,  to  establish  himself  in  business.  It 
was  a  bitter,  bitter  parting  to  both.  The  warmest 
letters  were  but  a  cold  substitute  for  those  happy 
hours  of  mutual  confidence;  and  after  awhile,  his 
letters  became  more  brief  and  cool.  The  fact  was, 
the  young  man  was  too  vain  to  feel  deeply ;  and 
among  his  new  acquaintance  in  the  city  was  a  young 
good-looking  widow,  with  a  small  fortune,  who  early 
evinced  a  preference  for  him.  To  be  obviously,  and 
at  the  same  time  modestly  preferred,  by  a  woman  of 
any  agreeable  qualities,  is  what  few  men,  even  of  the 
strongest  character,  can  withstand.  It  is  the  know 
ledge  of  this  fact,  and  experience  with  regard  to  the  most 
delicate  and  acceptable  mode  of  expressing  preference, 
which,  as  Samuel  Weller  declares,  makes  "  a  widow 
equal  to  twenty -five  other  women."  Lizzy's  lover  was 
12* 


138  ELIZABETH     WILSON. 

not  a  strong  character,  and  he  was  vain  and  selfish.  It 
is  no  wonder,  therefore,  that  his  letters  to  the  pretty 
girl,  who  lived  out  at  service,  should  become  more 
cool  and  infrequent.  She  was  very  slow  to  believe  it 
thus ;  and  when,  at  last,  news  reached  her  that  he 
was  positively  engaged  to  be  married  to  another,  she 
refused  to  listen  to  it.  But  he  came  not  to  vindicate 
himself,  and  he  ceased  to  answer  her  letters.  The 
poor  deluded  girl  awoke  to  a  full  consciousness  of  her 
misery,  and  suffered  such  intensity  of  wretchedness  as 
only  keenly  sensitive  natures  can  suffer.  William 
had  promised  to  come  and  see  her  the  latter  part  of 
the  winter,  and  her  heart  had  been  filled  with  pleasant 
and  triumphant  anticipations  of  introducing  to  him  her 
handsome  lover.  But  now  the  pride  of  her  heart  was 
humbled,  and  its  joy  turned  into  mourning.  She  was 
cast  off,  forsaken ;  and,  alas,  that  was  not  the  worst. 
As  she  sobbed  on  the  neck  of  her  faithful  brother,  she 
felt,  for  the  first  time,  that  there  was  something  she 
could  not  tell  him.  The  keenest  of  her  wretched 
feelings  she  dared  not  avow.  He  pitied  and  consoled 
her,  as  well  as  he  could  ;  but  to  her  it  seemed  as  if  there 
was  no  consolation  but  in  death.  Most  earnestly  did 
he  wish  that  he  had  a  home  to  shelter  her,  where  he 
could  fold  her  round  with  the  soft  wings  of  brotherly 
love.  But  they  were  both  poor,  and  poverty  fetters 
the  impulses  of  the  heart.  And  so  they  must  part 
again,  he  guessing  but  half  of  her  great  sorrow.  If 
the  farewell  was  sad  to  him,  what  must  it  have  been 
to  her,  who  now  felt  so  utterly  alone  in  the  wide 
world  ?  Her  health  sank  under  the  conflict,  and  the 
fits  returned  upon  her  with  increased  violence.  In  her 


ELIZABETH    WILSON.  139 

state  of  gloomy  abstraction  and  indifference,  she  hard 
ly  noticed  the  significant  glances  and  busy  whispers 
of  neighbours  and  acquaintance.  With  her,  the 
agony  of  death  was  past.  The  world  seemed  too 
spectral  for  her  to  dread  its  censure.  At  last  she  gave 
birth  to  a  dead  infant,  and  for  a  long  time  her  own 
life  trembled  in  the  balance.  She  recovered  in  a  state 
of  confirmed  melancholy,  and  with  visible  indications 
of  intellect,  more  impaired  than  ever. 

"  A  shadow  seemed  to  rise 

From  out  her  thoughts,  and  turned  to  dreariness 
All  blissful  hopes  and  sunny  memories." 

She  was  no  longer  invited  to  visit  with  the  young 
people  of  the  neighbourhood  ;  and  the  envy  excited  by 
her  uncommon  beauty  showed  itself  in  triumph  over 
her  blighted  reputation.  Her  father  thought  it  a  duty 
to  reprove  her  for  sin,  and  her  step-mother  said  some 
cutting  words  about  the  disgrace  her  conduct  had 
brought  upon  the  family.  But  no  kind  Christian 
heart  strengthened  her  with  the  assurance  that  one 
false  step  in  life  might  be  forgiven  and  retrieved. 
Thus  was  the  lily  broken  in  its  budding  beauty,  and 
its  delicate  petals  blighted  by  harsh  winds. 

Poor  Lizzy  felt  this  depressing  atmosphere  of  ne 
glect  and  scorn ;  but  fortunately  with  less  keenness 
than  she  would  have  done,  before  brain  was  stultified, 
and  heart  congealed  by  shame  and  sorrow.  She  no 
longer  showed  much  feeling  about  anything,  except 
the  little  blue  bench  marked  W.  and  E.  Every  mo 
ment  that  she  could  steal  from  household  labours,  she 
would  retire  to  her  little  room,  and,  seated  on  this 
bench,  would  read  over  William's  letters,  and  those 


140  ELIZABETH     WILSON. 

other  letters,  which  had  crushed  her  loving  heart. 
She  would  not  allow  any  person  to  remove  the  bench 
from  her  bedside,  or  to  place  a  foot  upon  it.  To  such 
inanimate  objects  does  the  poor  human  heart  cling  in 
its  desolation. 

Years  passed  away  monotonously  with  Elizabeth  ; 
years  of  loneliness  and  labour.  Some  young  men, 
attracted  by  her  beauty,  and  emboldened  by  a  know 
ledge  of  her  weakness,  approached  her  with  familiari 
ty,  which  they  intended  for  flattery.  But  their  pro 
fligacy  was  too  thinly  disguised  to  be  dangerous  to  u 
nature  like  hers.  She  turned  coldly  from  them  all, 
with  feelings  of  disgust  and  weariness. 

When  she  was  about  twenty-three  years  old,  she 
went  to  Philadelphia  to  do  household  work  for  a  family 
that  wished  to  hire  her.  Important  events  followed 
this  change,  but  a  veil  of  obscurity  rests  over  the  causes 
that  produced  them.  After  some  months  residence  in 
the  city,  her  health  failed  more  and  more,  and  she  re 
turned  to  the  country.  She  was  still  competent  to 
discharge  the  lighter  duties  of  household  labour,  but 
she  seemed  to  perform  them  all  mechanically,  and 
with  a  dull  stupor.  After  a  time,  it  became  obvious 
that  she  would  again  be  a  mother.  When  questioned, 
her  answers  were  incoherent  and  contradictory.  Some 
said  she  must  be  a  very  base  low  creature  to  commit 
this  second  fault ;  but  more  kindly  natures  said, 
"  She  was  always  soft-hearted  and  yielding,  from  child 
hood  ;  and  she  is  hardly  a  responsible  being ;  for 
trouble  and  continual  fits  have  made  her  almost  an 
idiot."  At  last  she  gave  birth  to  twins.  She  wept 
when  she  saw  them  j  but  they  seemed  to  have  no 


ELIZABETH     WILSON.  141 

power  to  withdraw  her  mind  from  its  disconsolate 
wanderings.  When  they  were  a  few  moths  old,  she 
expressed  a  wish  to  return  to  Philadelphia ;  and  a 
lad,  belonging  to  the  family  where  she  had  remained 
during  her  illness,  agreed  to  convey  her  part  of  the 
way  in  a  wagon.  When  they  came  into  the  public 
road,  she  told  him  she  could  walk  the  rest  of  the  way, 
and  begged  him  to  return.  He  left  her  seated  on  a 
rock,  near  a  thick  grove,  nursing  her  babes.  She 
was  calm  and  gentle,  but  sad  and  abstracted  as  usual. 
That  was  in  the  morning.  Where  or  how  she  spent 
the  day  was  never  known.  Toward  night  she  arrived  in 
Philadelphia,  at  the  house  where  she  had  formerly  lived. 
She  seemed  very  haggard  and  miserable  ;  what  few 
words  she  said  were  abrupt  and  unmeaning ;  and 
her  attitudes  and  motions  had  the  sluggish  apathy  of 
an  insane  person. 

The  next  day,  there  was  a  rumour  afloat  that  two 
strangled  infants  had  been  found  in  a  grove  on  the 
road  from  Chester.  Of  course  this  circumstance  soon 
became  connected  with  her  name.  When  she  was 
arrested,  she  gave  herself  up  with  the  same  gloomy 
indifference  that  marked  all  her  actions.  She  denied 
having  committed  the  murder :  but  when  asked  who 
she  supposed  had  done  it,  she  sometimes  shuddered 
and  said  nothing,  sometimes  said  she  did  not  know, 
and  sometimes  answered  the  children  were  still  living. 
When  conveyed  to  prison,  she  asked  for  pen  and  ink, 
and  in  a  short  letter,  rudely  penned,  she  begged  Wil 
liam  to  come  to  her,  and  to  bring  from  her  bed-room 
the  little  blue  bench  they  used  to  sit  upon  in  the  happy 


142  ELIZABETH     WILSON. 

days  of  childhood.  He  came  at  once,  and  long  did 
the  affectionate  couple  stand  locked  in  each  other's 
arms,  sobbing,  and  without  the  power  to  speak.  It 
was  not  until  the  second  interview,  that  her  brother 
could  summon  courage  to  ask  whether  she  really 
committed  the  crime  of  which  she  was  accused. 

"  Oh  no,  William,"  she  replied,  "  you  could  not 
suppose  I  did." 

"  You  must  indeed  have  been  dreadfully  changed, 
dear  Lizzy,"  said  he  ;  "  for  you  used  to  have  a  heart 
that  could  not  hurt  a  kitten." 

"  I  am  dreadfully  changed,"  she  answered,  "  but  I 
never  wanted  to  harm  anything." 

He  took  her  hand,  played  sadly  with  the  emaciat 
ed  fingers,  and  after  a  strong  effort  to  control  his  emo 
tions,  he  said,  in  a  subdued  voice,  "Lizzy,  dear,  can 
you  tell  me  who  did  do  it  ?" 

She  stared  at  him  with  a  wild  intense  gaze,  that 
made  him  shudder.  Then  looking  fearfully  toward 
the  door,  she  said,  in  a  strange  muffled  whisper,  "  Did 
what  ?"  Poor  William  bowed  his  head  over  the  hand 
that  he  held  in  his  own,  and  wept  like  a  child. 

During  various  successive  interviews,  he  could 
obtain  no  satisfactory  answer  to  the  important  ques 
tion.  Sometimes  she  merely  gazed  at  him  with  a 
vacant  inane  expression ;  sometimes  she  faintly  an 
swered  that  she  did  not  know  ;  and  sometimes  she  said 
she  believed  the  babes  were  still  alive.  She  gradually 
became  more  quiet  and  rational  under  her  brother's 
soothing  influence  ;  and  one  day,  when  he  had  re 
peatedly  assured  her  that  she  could  safely  trust  her 


ELIZABETH     WILSON.  143 

secrets  to  his  faithful  heart,  she  said  with  a  suppress 
ed  whisper,  as  if  she  feared  the  sound  of  her  own 
voice,  "He  did  it." 

"  Who  is  he  ?"  asked  the  brother,  gently. 

"  The  father,"  she  replied. 

"  Did  you  know  he  meant  to  do  it  ?" 

"  No.  He  told  me  he  would  meet  me  and  give 
me  some  money.  But  when  I  asked  him  for  some 
thing  to  support  the  children,  he  was  angry,  and 
choked  them.  I  was  frightened,  and  felt  faint.  I 
don't  know  what  I  did.  I  woke  up  and  found  myself 
on  the  ground  alone,  and  the  babies  lying  among  the 
bushes." 

"  What  is  his  name,  and  where  does  he  live  ?"  in 
quired  the  brother. 

She  gave  him  a  wild  look  of  distress,  and  said — 
"  Oh,  don't  ask  me.  I  ought  not  to  have  done  so. 
I  am  a  poor  sinner — a  poor  sinner.  But  everybody 
deserted  me  ;  the  world  was  very  cold ;  I  had  nobody 
to  love  ;  and  he  was  very  kind  to  me." 

"  But  tell  me  his  name,"  urged  the  brother. 

She  burst  into  a  strange  mad  laugh,  picked  nervously 
at  the  handkerchief  she  held  in  her  hand,  and  repeated, 
idiotically,  "  Name  ?  name  ?  I  guess  the  babies  are 
alive  now.  I  don't  know — I  don't  know  ;  but  I  guess 
they  are." 

To  the  lawyer  she  would  say  nothing,  except  t6 
deny  that  she  committed  the  murder.  All  their  ex 
ertions  could  wring  from  her  nothing  more  distinct 
than  the  story  she  had  briefly  told  her  brother.  Dur 
ing  her  trial,  the  expression  of  her  countenance  was 
stupid  and  vacant.  At  times,  she  would  drum  on  the 


144  ELIZABETH     WILSON. 

railing  before  her,  and  stare  round  on  the  crowd  with 
a  bewildered  look,  as  if  unconscious  where  she  was. 
The  deranged  state  of  her  mind  was  strongly  urged 
by  her  lawyer  ;  but  his  opponent  replied  thai  all  this 
might  be  assumed.  To  the  story  she  had  told  in  prison, 
it  was  answered  that  her  not  telling  of  the  murder  at 
the  time  made  her  an  accomplice.  After  the  usual 
display  of  legal  ingenuity  on  both  sides,  the  jury 
brought  her  in  guilty  of  murder,  and  the  poor  forlorn 
demented  creature  was  sentenced  to  be  hung  at 
Chester. 

The  wretched  brother  was  so  stunned  by  the  blow, 
that  at  first  he  could  not  collect  his  thoughts.  But  it 
soon  occurred  to  him  that  the  terrible  doom  might 
still  be  arrested,  if  the  case  could  be  brought  suitably 
before  the  governor.  -A  petition  was  accordingly 
drawn  up,  setting  forth  the  alienation  of  mind  to  which 
she  had  been  subject,  in  consequence  of  fits,  and  the 
extreme  doubtfulness  whether  she  committed  the  mur 
der.  Her  youth,  her  beauty,  the  severe  sorrows  of 
her  life,  and  the  obviously  impaired  state  of  her  reason, 
touched  many  hearts,  and  the  petition  was  rapidly 
signed.  When  William  went  to  her  cell  to  bid  her 
adieu,  he  tried  to  cheer  her  with  the  hope  of  pardon. 
She  listened  with  listless  apathy.  But  when  he  press 
ed  her  hand,  and  with  a  mournful  smile  said,  "  Good 
bye,  dear  Lizzy,  I  shall  come  back  soon ;  and  I  hope 
with  good  news,"  she  pointed  tearfully  to  the  little 
blue  bench  and  said,  "  Let  what  will  happen,  Willie, 
take  care  of  that,  for  my  sake."  He  answered  with  a 
choked  voice  ;  and  as  he  turned  away,  the  tears  flowed 
fast  down  his  manly  cheeks.  She  listened  to  the 


ELIZABETH     WILSON.  145 

echoes  of  his  steps,  and  when  she  could  hear  them  no 
longer,  she  threw  herself  on  the  floor,  laid  her  head 
down  on  the  little  blue  bench,  kissed  the  letters  carved 
upon  it,  and  sobbed  as  she  had  not  sobbed  since  she 
was  first  deserted  by  her  false  lover.  When  the  jailor 
went  in  to  carry  her  supper,  he  found  her  asleep  thus. 
Rich  masses  of  her  glossy  brown  hair  fell  over  her 
pale,  but  still  lovely  face,  on  which  rested  a  serene 
smile,  as  if  she  were  happy  in  her  dreams.  He  stood 
and  gazed  upon  her,  and  his  hard  hand  brushed  away  a 
tear.  Some  motion  that  he  made  disturbed  her  slum 
ber.  She  opened  her  eyes,  from  which  there  beamed 
for  a  moment  a  rational  and  happy  expression,  as  she 
said,  "  I  was  out  in  the  woods,  behind  the  house, 
holding  my  little  apron  to  catch  the  nuts  that  Willie 
threw  down.  Mother  smiled  at  me  from  a  blue  place 
between  two  clouds,  and  said,  '  Come  to  me,  my 
child.' " 

The  next  day  a  clergyman  came  to  see  her.  He 
spoke  of  the  penalty  for  sin,  and  the  duty  of  being  re 
signed  to  the  demands  of  justice.  She  heard  his 
words,  as  a  mother  hears  street  sounds  when  she  is 
watching  a  dying  babe.  They  conveyed  to  her  no  im 
port.  When  asked  if  she  repented  of  her  sins,  she 
said  she  had  been  a  weak  erring  creature,  and  she 
hoped  that  she  was  penitent ;  but  that  she  never  com 
mitted  the  murder. 

"  Are  you  resigned  to  die,  if  a  pardon  should  not 
be  obtained  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  replied,  "  I  want  to  die." 

He  prayed  with  her  in  the  spirit  of  real  human  love ; 
and  this  soothed  hei  heart.     She  spoke  seldom,  after 
13 


146  ELIZABETH     WILSON. 

her  brother's  departure  ;  and  often  she  did  not  appear 
to  hear  when  she  was  spoken  to.  She  sat  on  the 
little  blue  bench,  gazing  vacantly  on  the  floor,  like 
one  already  out  of  the  body. 

In  those  days,  there  was  briefer  interval  between 
sentence  and  execution,  than  at  present.  The  atal 
day  and  hour  soon  arrived,  and  still  no  tidings  from 
the  governor.  Men  came  to  lead  her  to  the  gallows. 
She  seemed  to  understand  what  they  said  to  her,  and 
turned  meekly  to  obey  their  orders.  But  she  stopped 
suddenly,  gazed  on  the  little  blue  bench,  and  said  in  a 
gasping  tone,  "  Has  William  come  ?"  When  they  told 
her  no,  a  shudder  seemed  to  go  over  her,  and  her  pale 
face  became  still  paler.  A  bit  of  looking-glass  hung  on 
the  wall  in  front  of  her;  and  as  she  raised  her  head, 
she  saw  the  Jittle  curl,  that  had  received  her  mother's 
caresses,  and  the  first  kiss  of  love.  With  a  look  of 
the  most  intense  agony,  she  gave  a  loud  groan,  and 
burying  her  face  in  her  hands,  fell  forward  on  the 
shoulder  of  the  sheriff. 

*  ^  #  =H=  % 

Poor  William  had  worked  with  the  desperate  ener 
gy  of  despair,  and  the  governor,  after  brief  delay, 
granted  a  pardon.  But  in  those  days,  the  facilities 
for  travelling  were  few;  and  it  happened  that  the 
country  was  inundated  with  heavy  rains,  which  every 
where  impeded  his  progress.  He  stopped  neither  for 
food  nor  rest ;  but  everywhere  the  floods  and  broken 
roads  hindered  him.  When  he  came  to  Darby 
Creek,  which  was  usually  fordable,  it  was  swollen 
too  high  to  be  crossed,  and  it  was  sometime  before  a 
boat  could  be  obtained.  In  agony  of  mind  he  pressed 


ELIZABETH     WILSON.  147 

onward,  till  his  horse  fell  dead  under  him.  Half 
frantic,  he  begged  for  another  at  any  price,  mounted, 
and  rode  furiously.  From  the  top  of  a  hill,  he  saw  a 
crowd  assembled  round  the  place  of  execution.  He 
waved  his  handkerchief,  he  shouted,  he  screamed. 
But  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment  he  was  not 
heard  or  noticed.  All  eyes  were  fastened  on  the  gal 
lows  ;  and  soon  the  awful  object  came  within  his  own, 
vision.  Father  of  mercies  !  There  are  a  woman's 
garments  floating  in  the  air.  There  is  a  struggling, 
a  quivering — and  all  is  still. 

With  a  shriek  that  pierced  the  ears  of  the  mul 
titude,  the  desperate  rider  plunged  forward  ;  his 
horse  fell  under  him,  and  shouting,  "A  pardon!  A 
pardon !"  he  rolled  senseless  on  the  ground.  He 
came  too  late.  The  unhappy  Elizabeth  was  dead. 
The  poor  young  creature,  guilty  of  too  much  heart, 
and  too  little  brain  to  guide  it,  had  been  murdered  by 
law,  and  men  called  it  justice. 

Pale  as  a  ghost,  with  hair  suddenly  whitened  by 
excess  of  anguish,  the  wretched  brother  bent  over  the 
corpse  of  that  beautiful  sister,  whom  he  had  loved  so 
well.  They  spoke  to  him  of  resignation  to  God's 
will.  He  answered  not ;  for  it  was  not  clear  to  him 
that  the  cruelty  of  man  is  the  will  of  God.  Reverently 
and  tenderly,  he  cut  from  that  fair  brow  the  favourite 
little  curl,  twined  about  with  so  many  sacred  memo 
ries,  and  once  a  source  of  girlish  innocent  joy  to  the 
yearning  heart,  that  slept  so  calmly  now.  He  took 
the  little  bench  from  its  cold  corner  in  the  prison,  and 
gathering  together  his  small  personal  property,  he 
retired  to  a  lonely  cave  in  Dauphin  county.  He 


148  ELIZABETH     WILSON. 

shunned  all  intercourse  with  his  fellow  men,  and 
when  spoken  to,  answered  briefly  and  solemnly. 
There  he  died  a  few  years  ago,  at  an  advanced  age. 
He  is  well  remembered  in  the  region  round  about,  as 
WILLIAM  the  HERMIT. 


THE  NEIGHBOUR-IN-LAW. 

WHO  blesses  others  in  his  daily  deeds, 
Will  find  the  healing  that  his  spirit  needs  ; 
For  every  flower  in  others'  pathway  strewn, 
Confers  its  fragrant  beauty  on  our  own. 

"  So  you  are  going  to  live  in  the  same  building  with 
Hetty  Turnpenny,"  said  Mrs.  Lane  to  Mrs.  Fairwea- 
ther,  "  You  will  find  nobody  to  envy  you.  If  her 
temper  does  not  prove  too  much  even  for  your  good 
nature,  it  will  surprise  all  who  know  her.  We  lived 
there  a  year,  and  that  is  as  long  as  anybody  ever 
tried  it." 

"  Poor  Hetty  !"  replied  Mrs.  Fairweather,  "  She 
has  had  much  to  harden  her.  Her  mother  died  too 
early  for  her  to  remember  ;  her  father  was  very  severe 
with  her ,  and  the  only  lover  she  ever  had,  borrowed 
the  savings  of  her  years  of  toil,  and  spent  them  in  dis 
sipation.  But  Hetty,  notwithstanding  her  sharp  fea 
tures,  and  sharper  words,  certainly  has  a  kind  heart. 
In  the  midst  of  her  greatest  poverty,  many  were  the 
stockings  she  knit,  and  the  warm  waistcoats  she  made, 
for  the  poor  drunken  lover,  whom  she  had  too  much 
good  sense  to  marry.  Then  you  know  she  feeds  and 
clothes  her  brother's  orphan  child." 

"  If  you  call  it  feeding  and  clothing,"  replied  Mrs. 

Lane.     "  The  poor  child  looks  cold,  and  pinched,  and 

frightened  all  the  time,  as  if  she  were  chased  by  the 

East  wind.     I  used  to  tell  Miss  Turnpenny  she  ought 

13* 


150  THE    NEIGHBOUR-IN-LAW. 

to  be  ashamed  of  herself,  to  keep  the  poor  little  thing  at 
work  all  the  time,  without  one  minute  to  play.  If 
she  does  but  look  at  the  cat,  as  it  runs  by  the  window, 
Aunt  Hetty  gives  her  a  rap  over  the  knuckles.  I 
used  to  tell  her  she  would  make  the  girl  just  such 
another  sour  old  crab  as  herself." 

"  That  must  have  been  very  improving  to  her  dis 
position,"  replied  Mrs.  Fairweather,  with  a  good- 
humoured  smile.  "  But  in  justice  to  poor  Aunt  Hetty, 
you  ought  to  remember  that  she  had  just  such  a  cheer 
less  childhood  herself.  Flowers  grow  where  there  is 
sunshine." 

"  I  know  you  think  everybody  ought  to  live  in  the 
sunshine,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Lane  ;  "  and  it  must  be  con 
fessed  that  you  carry  it  with  you  wherever  you  go. 
If  Miss  Turnpenny  has  a  heart,  I  dare  say  you  will 
find  it  out,  though  I  never  could,  and  I  never  heard  of 
any  one  else  that  could.  All  the  families  within  hear 
ing  of  her  tongue  call  her  the  neighbour-in-law." 

Certainly  the  prospect  was  not  very  encouraging ; 
for  the  house  Mrs.  Fairweather  proposed  to  occupy, 
was  not  only  under  the  same  roof  with  Miss  Turn 
penny,  but  the  buildings  had  one  common  yard  in  the 
rear,  and  one  common  space  for  a  garden  in  front. 
The  very  first  day  she  took  possession  of  her  new 
habitation,  she  called  on  the  neighbour-in-law.  Aunt 
Hetty  had  taken  the  precaution  to  extinguish  the  fire, 
lest  the  new  neighbour  should  want  hot  water,  before 
her  own  wood  and  coal  arrived.  Her  first  salutation 
was,  "  If  you  want  any  cold  water,  there's  a  pump 
across  the  street ;  I  don't  like  to  have  my  house  slop 
ped  all  over." 


THE    NEIGHBOUR-IN-LAW.  151 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  so  tidy,  neighbour  Turnpenny," 
replied  Mrs.  Fairweather  ;  "  It  is  extremely  pleasant 
to  have  neat  neighbours.  I  will  try  to  keep  everything 
as  bright  as  a  new  five  cent  piece,  for  I  see  that  will 
please  you.  I  came  in  merely  to  say  good  morning, 
and  to  ask  if  you  could  spare  little  Peggy  to  run  up  and 
down  stairs  for  me,  while  I  am  getting  my  furniture 
in  order.  I  will  pay  her  sixpence  an  hour." 

Aunt  Hetty  had  begun  to  purse  up  her  mouth  for  a 
refusal ;  but  the  promise  of  sixpence  an  hour  relaxed 
her  features  at  once.  Little  Peggy  sat  knitting  a 
stocking  very  diligently,  with  a  rod  lying  on  the  table 
beside  her.  She  looked  up  with  timid  wistfulness,  as 
if  the  prospect  of  any  change  was  like  a  release  from 
prison.  When  she  heard  consent  given,  a  bright 
colour  flushed  her  cheeks.  She  was  evidently  of  an 
impressible  temperament,  for  good  or  evil.  "  Now 
mind  and  behave  yourself,"  said  Aunt  Hetty  ;  "  and 
see  that  you  keep  at  work  the  whole  time.  If  I  hear 
one  word  of  complaint,  you  know  what  you'll  get 
when  you  come  home."  The  rose-colour  subsided 
from  Peggy's  pale  face,  and  she  answered,  "  Yes, 
ma'am,"  very  meekly. 

In  the  neighbour's  house  all  went  quite  otherwise. 
No  switch  lay  on  the  table,  and  instead  of,  "  mind 
how  you  do  that.  If  you  don't  I'll  punish  you,"  she 
heard  the  gentle  words,  "  There,  dear,  see  how  care 
fully  you  can  carry  that  up  stairs.  Why,  what  a 
nice  handy  little  girl  you  are  !"  Under  this  enliven 
ing  influence,  Peggy  worked  like  a  bee,  and  soon  began 
to  hum  much  more  agreeably  than  a  bee.  Aunt  Hetty 
was  always  in  the  habit  of  saying,  "  Stop  your  noise, 


152  THE    NEIGHBOUR-LN'-LAW. 

and  mind  your  woik."  But  the  new  friend  patted  her 
on  the  head,  and  said,  "  What  a  pleasant  voice  the 
little  girl  has.  It  is  like  the  birds  in  the  fields.  By 
and  by,  you  shall  hear  my  music-box."  This  opened 
wide  the  windows  of  the  poor  little  shut-up  heart,  so 
that  the  sunshine  could  stream  in,  and  the  birds  fly  in 
and  out,  carolling.  The  happy  child  tuned  up  like  a 
lark,  as  she  tripped  lightly  up  and  down  stairs,  on 
various  household  errands.  But  though,  she  took 
heed  to  observe  all  the  directions  given  her,  her  head 
was  all  the  time  filled  with  conjectures  what  sort  of  a 
thing  a  music-box  might  be.  She  was  a  little  afraid 
the  kind  lady  would  forget  to  show  it  to  her.  She 
kept  at  work,  however,  and  asked  no  questions  ;  she 
only  looked  very  curiously  at  everything  that  resem 
bled  a  box.  At  last  Mrs.  Fairweather  said,  "  I  think 
your  little  feet  must  be  tired,  by  this  time.  We  will 
rest  awhile,  and  eat  some  gingerbread."  The  child 
took  the  offered  cake,  with  a  humble  little  courtesy, 
and  carefully  held  out  her  apron  to  prevent  any  crumbs 
from  falling  on  the  floor.  But  suddenly  the  apron 
dropped,  and  the  crumbs  were  all  strewn  about. 
"  Is  that  a  little  bird  ?"  she  exclaimed  eagerly. 
"Where  is  he?  Is  he  in  this  room?"  The  new 
friend  smiled,  and  told  her  that  was  the  music-box ; 
and  after  awhile  she  opened  it,  and  explained  what 
made  the  sounds.  Then  she  took  out  a  pile  of  books 
from  one  of  the  baskets  of  goods,  and  told  Peggy  she 
might  look  at  the  pictures,  till  she  called  her.  The 
little  girl  stepped  forward  eagerly  to  take  them,  and 
then  drew  back,  as  if  afraid.  "  What  is  the  matter  ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Fairweather  ;  "  I  am  very  willing  to  trust 


THE    NEIGHBOUR-IN-LAW.  153 

you  with  the  books.  I  keep  them  on  purpose  to 
amuse  children."  Peggy  looked  down  with  her  finger 
on  her  lip,  and  answered  in  a  constrained  voice, 
"  Aunt  Turnpenny  won't  like  it  if  I  play."  "  Don't 
trouble  yourself  about  that.  I  will  make  it  all  right 
with  Aunt  Hetty,"  replied  the  friendly  one.  Thus 
assured,  she  gave  herself  up  to  the  full  enjoyment  of 
the  picture  books  ;  and  when  she  was  summoned  to 
her  work,  she  obeyed  with  a  cheerful  alacrity  that 
would  have  astonished  her  stern  relative.  When  the 
labours  of  the  day  were  concluded,  Mrs.  Fairweather 
accompanied  her  home,  paid  for  all  the  hours  she  had 
been  absent,  and  warmly  praised  her  docility  and  dili 
gence.  "  It  is  lucky  for  her  that  she  behaved  so  well," 
replied  Aunt  Hetty ;  "  if  I  had  heard  any  complaint, 
I  should  have  given  her  a  whipping,  and  sent  her  to 
bed  without  her  supper." 

Poor  little  Peggy  went  to  sleep  that  night  with  a 
lighter  heart  than  she  had  ever  felt,  since  she  had  been 
an  orphan.  Her  first  thought  in  the  morning  was 
whether  the  new  neighbour  would  want  her  service 
again  during  the  day.  Her  desire  that  it  should  be 
so,  soon  became  obvious  to  Aunt  Hetty,  and  excited  an 
undefined  jealousy  and  dislike  of  a  person  who  so  easily 
made  herself  beloved.  Without  exactly  acknowledg 
ing  to  herself  what  were  her  own  motives,  she  ordered 
Peggy  to  gather  all  the  sweepings  of  the  kitchen  and 
court  into  a  small  pile,  and  leave  it  on  the  frontier 
line  of  her  neighbour's  premises.  Peggy  ventured  to 
ask  timidly  whether  the  wind  would  not  blow  it  about, 
and  she  received  a  box  on  the  ear  for  her  impertinence. 
It  chanced  that  Mrs.  Fairweather,  quite  unintention- 


154  THE    NEIGHBGUR-IN-LAW. 

ally,  heard  the  words  and  the  blow.  She  gave  Aunt 
Hetty's  anger  time  enough  to  cool,  then  stepped  out 
into  the  court,  and  after  arranging  divers  little  matters, 
she  called  aloud  to  her  domestic,  "  Sally,  how  came 
you  to  leave  this  pile  of  dirt  here  ?  Didn't  I  tell  you 
Miss  Turnpenny  was  very  neat  ?  Pray  make  haste 
and  sweep  it  up.  I  wouldn't  have  her  see  it  on  any 
account.  I  told  her  I  would  try  to  keep  everything 
nice  about  the  premises.  She  is  so  particular  herself, 
and  it  is  a  comfort  to  have  tidy  neighbours."  The 
girl,  who  had  been  previously  instructed,  smiled  as  she 
came  out  with  brush  and  dust-pan,  and  swept  quietly 
away  the  pile,  that  was  intended  as  a  declaration  of 
border  war. 

But  another  source  of  annoyance  presented  itself, 
which  could  not  so  easily  be  disposed  of.  Aunt  Hetty 
had  a  cat,  a  lean  scraggy  animal,  that  looked  as  if 
she  were  often  .kicked  and  seldom  fed ;  and  Mrs. 
Fairweather  had  a  fat,  frisky  little  dog,  always  ready 
for  a  caper.  He  took  a  distaste  to  poor  poverty- 
stricken  Tab,  the  first  time  he  saw  her  ;  and  no  coax 
ing  could  induce  him  to  alter  his  opinion.  His  name 
was  Pink,  but  he  was  anything  but  a  pink  of  be 
haviour  in  his  neighbourly  relations.  Poor  Tab 
could  never  set  foot  out  of  doors  without  being  saluted 
with  a  growl,  and  a  short  sharp  bark,  that  frightened 
her  out  of  her  senses,  and  made  her  run  into  the 
house,  with  her  fur  all  on  end.  If  she  even  ventured 
to  doze  a  little  on  her  own  door  step,  the  enemy  was 
on  the  watch,  and  the  moment  her  eyes  closed,  he 
would  wake  her  with  a  bark  and  a  box  on  the  ear, 
and  off  he  would  run.  Aunt  Hetty  vowed  she  would 


THE    NEIGHBOUR-IN-LAW.  155 

scald  him.  It  was  a  burning  shame,  she  said,  for 
folks  to  keep  dogs  to  worry  their  neighbours'  cats. 
Mrs.  Fairweather  invited  Tabby  to  dine,  and  made 
much  of  her,  and  patiently  endeavoured  to  teach  her 
dog  to  eat  from  the  same  plate.  But  Pink  sturdily 
resolved  he  would  be  scalded  first ;  that  he  would. 
He  could  not  have  been  more  obstinate  in  his  opposi 
tion,  if  he  and  Tab  had  belonged  to  different  sects  in 
Christianity.  While  his  mistress  was  patting  Tab 
on  the  head,  and  reasoning  the  point  with  him,  he 
would  at  times  manifest  a  degree  of  indifference, 
amounting  to  toleration  ;  but  the  moment  he  was  left 
to  his  own  free  will,  he  would  give  the  invited  guest 
a  hearty  cuff  with  his  paw,  and  send  her  home  spit 
ting  like  a  small  steam  engine.  Aunt  Hetty  consider 
ed  it  her  own  peculiar  privilege  to  cuff  the  poor  animal, 
and  it  was  too  much  for  her  patience  to  see  Pink  un 
dertake  to  assist  in  making  Tab  unhappy.  On  one 
of  these  occasions,  she  rushed  into  her  neighbour's 
apartments,  and  faced  Mrs.  Fairweather,  with  one 
hand  resting  on  her  hip,  and  the  forefinger  of  the  other 
making  very  wrathful  gesticulations.  "  I  tell  you 
what,  madam,  I  wont  put  up  with  such  treatment 
much  longer,"  said  she  ;  "  I'll  poison  that  dog  ;  see  if 
I  don't ;  and  I  shan't  wait  long,  either,  I  can  tell  you. 
What  you  keep  such  an  impudent  little  beast  for,  I 
don't  know,  without  you  do  it  on  purpose  to  plague 
your  neighbours." 

"  I  am  really  sorry  he  behaves   so,"  replied  Mrs. 
Fairweather,  mildly.     "  Poor  Tab  !" 

"  Poor  Tab  !"  screamed  Miss  Turnpenny  ;  "  What 
do  you  mean  by  calling  her  poor  ?     Do  you  mean  to 


156  THE    NEIGHBOITR-IN-LAW. 

fling  it  up  to  me  that  my  cat  don't  have  enough  to 
eat  ?" 

"  I  didn't  think  of  such  a  thing,"  replied  Mrs.  Fair- 
weather.  "  I  called  her  poor  Tab,  because  Pink 
plagues  her  so,  that  she  has  no  peace  of  her  life.  I 
agree  with  you,  neighbour  Turnpenny  ;  it  is  not  right 
to  keep  a  dog  that  disturbs  the  neighbourhood.  I  am 
attached  to  poor  little  Pink,  because  he  belongs  to 
my  son,  who  has  gone  to  sea.  I  was  in  hopes  he 
would  soon  leave  off  quarrelling  with  the  cat  ;  but  if 
he  won't  be  neighbourly,  I  will  send  him  out  in  the 
country  to  board.  Sally,  will  you  bring  me  one  of  the 
pies  we  baked  this  morning  ?  I  should  like  to  have 
Miss  Turnpenny  taste  of  them." 

The  crabbed  neighbour  was  helped  abundantly ; 
and  while  she  was  eating  the  pie,  the  friendly  matron 
edged  in  many  a  kind  word  concerning  little  Peggy, 
whom  she  praised  as  a  remarkably  capable,  industrious 
child. 

"  I  am  glad  you  find  her^so,"  rejoined  Aunt  Hetty : 
"  I  should  get  precious  little  work  out  of  her,  if  I 
didn't  keep  a  switch  in  sight." 

"  I  manage  children  pretty  much  as  the  man  did 
the  donkey,"  replied  Mrs.  Fairweather.  "  Not  an 
inch  would  the  poor  beast  stir,  for  all  his  master's 
beating  and  thumping.  But  a  neighbour  tied  some 
fresh  turnips  to  a  stick,  and  fastened  them  so  that 
they  swung  directly  before  the  donkey's  nose,  and 
off  he  set  on  a  brisk  trot,  in  hopes  of  overtaking 
them." 

Aunt  Hetty,  without  observing  how  very  closely 
the  comparison  applied  to  her  own  management  of 


THE    NEIGHBOtR-IN-LAW.  157 

Peggy,  said,  "  That  will  do  very  well  for  folks  that 
have  plenty  of  turnips  to  spare." 

"  For  the  matter  of  that,"  answered  Mrs.  Fair- 
weather,  "  whips  cost  something,  as  well  as  turnips  ; 
and  since  one  makes  the  donkpy  stand  still,  and  the 
other  makes  him  trot,  it  is  easy  to  decide  which  is  the 
most  economical.  But,  neighbour  Turnpenny,  since 
you  like  my  pies  so  well,  pray  take  one  home  with 
you.  I  am  afraid  they  will  mould  before  we  can 
eat  them  up." 

Aunt  Hetty  had  come  in  for  a  quarrel,  and  she  was 
astonished  to  find  herself  going  out  with  a  pie.  "  Well, 
Mrs.  Fairweather,"  said  she,  "  you  are  a  neighbour. 
I  thank  you  a  thousand  times."  When  she  reached 
her  own  door,  she  hesitated  for  an  instant,  then  turned 
back,  pie  in  hand,  to  say,  "  Neighbour  Fairweather, 
you  needn't  trouble  yourself  about  sending  Pink  away. 
It's  natural  you  should  like  the  little  creature,  seeing 
he  belongs  to  your  son.  I'll  try  to  keep  Tab  in  doors, 
and  perhaps  after  awhile  they  will  agree  better." 

"  I  hope  they  will,"  replied  the  friendly  matron : 
"  We  will  try  them  awhile  longer,  and  if  they  per 
sist  in  quarreling,  I  will  send  the  dog  into  the  coun 
try."  Pink,  who  was  sleeping  in  a  chair,  stretched 
himself  and  gaped.  His  kind  mistress  patted  him  on 
the  head,  "  Ah,  you  foolish  little  beast,"  said  she, 
"  what's  the  use  of  plaguing  poor  Tab?" 

"  Well,  I  do  say,"  observed  Sally,  smiling,  "you 
are  a  master  woman  for  stopping  a  quarrel." 

"  I  learned  a  good  lesson  when  I  was  a  little  girl," 
rejoined  Mrs.  Fairweather.     "  One  frosty  morning,  I 
was  looking  out  of  the  window  into  my  father's  barn- 
14 


158  THE    NE1GHBOUR-1N-LAW. 

yard,  where  stood  many  cows,  oxen,  and  horses, 
waiting  to  drink.  It  was  one  of  those  cold  snapping 
mornings,  when  a  slight  thing  irritates  both  man  and 
beast.  The  cattle  all  stood  very  still  and  meek,  till 
one  of  the  cows  attempted  to  turn  round.  In  making 
the  attempt,  she  happened  to  hit  her  next  neighbour ; 
whereupon  the  neighbour  kicked  and  hit  another.  In 
five  minutes,  the  whole  herd  were  kicking  and  hook 
ing  each  other,  with  all  fury.  Some  lay  sprawling 
on  the  ice,  others  were  slipping  about,  with  their  hind 
heels  reared  in  the  air.  My  mother  laughed,  and 
said,  '  See  what  comes  of  kicking  when  you're  hit. 
Just  so  I've  seen  one  cross  word  set  a  whole  family 
by  the  ears,  some  frosty  morning.'  Afterward,  if  my 
brothers  or  myself  were  a  little  irritable,  she  would 
say,  '  Take  care,  children.  Remember  how  the  fight 
in  the  barn-yard  began.  Never  give  a  kick  for  a  hit, 
and  you  will  save  yourself  and  others  a  deal  of 
trouble.'" 

That  same  afternoon,  the  sunshiny  dame  stepped 
into  Aunt  Hetty's  rooms,  where  she  found  Peggy 
sewing,  as  usual,  with  the  eternal  switch  on  the  table 
beside  her.  "  I  am  obliged  to  go  to  Harlem,  on  busi 
ness,"  said  she  :  "  I  feel  rather  lonely  without  com 
pany,  and  I  always  like  to  have  a  child  with  me.  If 
you  will  oblige  me  by  letting  Peggy  go,  I  will  pay 
her  fare  in  the  omnibus." 

"  She  has  her  spelling  lesson  to  get  before  night," 
replied  Aunt  Hetty.  "  I  don't  approve  of  young 
folks  going  a  pleasuring,  and  neglecting  their  educa 
tion." 

"  Neither  do  I,"  rejoined  her  neighbour ;   "  but  I 


THE    NEIGHBOUR-IN-LAW.  159 

think  there  is  a  great  deal  of  education  that  is  not 
found  in  books.  The  fresh  air  will  make  Peggy  grow 
stout  and  active.  I  prophesy  that  she  will  do  great 
credit  to  your  bringing  up."  The  sugared  words, 
and  the  remembrance  of  the  sugared  pie,  touched  the 
soft  place  in  Miss  Turnpenny's  heart,  and  she  told 
the  astonished  Peggy  that  she  might  go  and  put  on 
her  best  gown  and  bonnet.  The  poor  child  began  to 
think  that  this  new  neighbour  was  certainly  one  of 
the  good  fairies  she  read  about  in  the  picture  books. 
The  excursion  was  enjoyed  as  only  a  city  child  can 
enjoy  the  country.  The  world  seems  such  a  pleasant 
place,  when  the  fetters  are  off,  and  Nature  folds  the 
young  heart  lovingly  on  her  bosom  !  A  flock  of  real 
birds  and  two  living  butterflies  put  the  little  orphan  in 
a  perfect  ecstasy.  She  ran  and  skipped.  One  could 
see  that  she  might  be  graceful,  if  she  were  only  free. 
She  pointed  to  the  fields  covered  with  dandelions,  and 
said,  "  See  how  pretty  !  It  looks  as  if  the  stars  had 
come  down  to  lie  on  the  grass."  Ah,  our  little  stint 
ed  Peggy  has  poetry  in  her,  though  Aunt  Hetty  never 
found  it  out.  Every  human  soul  has  the  germ  of 
some  flowers  within,  and  they  would  open,  if  they 
could  only  find  sunshine  and  free  air  to  expand  in. 

Mrs.  Fairweather  was  a  practical  philosopher,  in 
her  own  small  way.  She  observed  that  Miss  Turn 
penny  really  liked  a  pleasant  tune ;  and  when  Win 
ter  came,  she  tried  to  persuade  her  that  singing  would 
be  excellent  for  Peggy's  lungs,  and  perhaps  keep  her 
from  going  into  a  consumption. 

"  My  nephew,  James  Fairweather,  keeps  a  singing 
school,"  said  she  ;  "  and  he  says  he  will  teach  her 


160  THE    NEIGHBOUR-IN-LAW. 

gratis.  You  need  not  feel  under  great  obligation  ; 
for  her  voice  will  lead  the  whole  school,  and  her  ear 
is  so  quick,  it  will  be  no  trouble  at  all  to  teach  her. 
Perhaps  you  would  go  with  us  sometimes,  neighbour 
Turnpenny  ?  It  is  very  pleasant  to  hear  the  chil 
dren's  voices." 

The  cordage  of  Aunt  Hetty's  mouth  relaxed  into  a 
smile.  She  accepted  the  invitation,  and  was  so  much 
pleased,  that  she  went  every  Sunday  evening.  The 
simple  tunes,  and  the  sweet  young  voices,  fell  like 
dew  on  her  dried-up  heart,  and  greatly  aided  the 
genial  influence  of  her  neighbour's  example.  The 
rod  silently  disappeared  from  the  table.  If  Peggy 
was  disposed  to  be  idle,  it  was  only  necessary  to  say, 
"  When  you  have  finished  your  work,  you  may  go 
and  ask  whether  Mrs.  Fairweather  wants  any  errands 
done."  Bless  me,  how  the  fingers  flew  !  Aunt  Hetty 
had  learned  to  use  turnips  instead  of  the  cudgel. 

When  Spring  came,  Mrs.  Fairweather  busied  her 
self  with  planting  roses  and  vines.  Miss  Turnpenny 
readily  consented  that  Peggy  should  help  her,  and 
even  refused  to  take  any  pay  from  such  a  good  neigh 
bour.  But  she  maintained  her  own  opinion  that  it 
was  a  mere  waste  of  time  to  cultivate  flowers.  The 
cheerful  philosopher  never  disputed  the  point ;  but 
she  would  sometimes  say,  "  I  have  no  room  to  plant 
this  rose-bush.  Neighbour  Turnpenny,  would  you 
be  willing  to  let  me  set  it  on  your  side  of  the  yard  ? 
It  will  take  very  little  room,  and  will  need  no  care." 
At  another  time,  she  would  say,  "  Well,  really  my 
ground  is  too  full.  Here  is  a  root  of  Lady's-delight. 
How  bright  and  pert  it  looks.  It  seems  a  pity  to 


THE    NEIGHBOUR-IN-LAW.  161 

tnrow  it  away.  If  you  are  willing,  I  will  let  Peggy 
plant  it  in  what  she  calls  her  garden.  It  will  grow 
of  itself,  without  any  care,  and  scatter  seeds,  that  will 
come  up  and  blossom  in  all  the  chinks  of  the  bricks. 
I  love  it.  It  is  such  a  bright  good-natured  little 
thing."  Thus  by  degrees,  the  crabbed  maiden  found 
herself  surrounded  by  flowers ;  and  she  even  declared, 
of  her  own  accord,  that  they  did  look  pretty. 

One  day,  when  Mrs.  Lane  called  upon  Mrs.  Fair- 
weather,  she  found  the  old  weed-grown  yard  bright 
and  blooming.  Tab,  quite  far  and  sleek,  was  asleep, 
in  the  sunshine,  with  her  paw  on  Pink's  neck,  and 
little  Peggy  was  singing  at  her  work,  as  blithe  as  a 
bird. 

"  How  cheerful  you  look  here,"  said  Mrs.  Lane. 
"  And  so  you  have  really  taken  the  house  for  another 
year.  Pray,  how  do  you  manage  to  get  on  with  the 
neighbour-in-law  ?" 

"  I  find  her  a  very  kind,  obliging  neighbour,"  replied 
Mrs.  Fairweather. 

"  Well,  this  is  a  miracle  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Lane, 
"  Nobody  but  you  would  have  undertaken  to  thaw 
out  Aunt  Hetty's  heart." 

"  That  is  probably  the  reason  why  it  was  never 
thawed,"  rejoined  her  friend.  "  I  always  told  you, 
that  not  having  enough  of  sunshine  was  what  ailed 
the  world.  Make  people  happy,  and  there  will  not  be 
half  the  quarrelling,  or  a  tenth  part  of  the  wickedness, 
there  is." 

From  this  gospel  of  joy  preached  and  practised, 
nobody  derived  so  much  benefit  as  little  Peggy.  Her 
nature,  which  was  fast  growing  crooked  and  knotty, 
14* 


162  THE    NE  GHBOUR-IN-LAW. 

under  the  malign  influence  of  constraint  and  fear, 
straightened  up,  budded  and  blossomed,  in  the  genial 
atmosphere  of  cheerful  kindness. 

Her  affections  and  faculties  were  kept  in  such 
pleasant  exercise,  that  constant  lightness  of  heart 
made  her  almost  handsome.  The  young  music- 
teacher  thought  her  more  than  almost  handsome  ;  for 
her  affectionate  soul  shone  more  beamingly  on  him 
than  on  others,  and  love  makes  all  things  beautiful. 

When  the  orphan  removed  to  her  pleasant  little 
cottage,  on  her  wedding-day,  she  threw  her  arms 
round  the  blessed  missionary  of  sunshine,  and  said, 
"  Ah,  thou  dear  good  Aunt,  it  is  thou  who  hast  made 
my  life  Fairweather." 


SHE  WAITS  IN  THE  SPIRIT  LAND. 

A  Romance  founded  on  an  Indian  Tradition. 

A  bard  of  many  breathings 
Is  the  wind  in  sylvan  wreathings, 

O'er  mountain  tops  and  through  the  woodland  groves  • 
Now  fifing  and  now  drumming, 
Now  howling  and  now  humming, 
As  it  roves. 

Though  the  wind  a  strange  tone  waketh 
In  every  home  it  maketh, 
And  the  maple  tree  responds  not  as  the  larch, 
Yet  harmony  is  playing 
Round  all  the  green  arms  swaying 

Neath  heaven's  arch. 

Oh,  what  can  be  the  teaching 
Of  these  forest  voices  preaching  ? 
'Tis  that  a  brother's  creed,  though  not  like  mine, 
May  blend  about  God's  altar, 
And  help  to  fill  the  psalter, 

That's  divine.  ELIZA  COOK 

PU-KEE-SHE-NO-QTIA  was  famous  among  her  tribe  for 
her  eloquent  manner  of  relating  stories.  She  trea 
sured  up  all  the  old  traditions,  and  though  she  repeat 
ed  them  truly,  they  came  from  her  mouth  rn  brighter 
pictures  than  from  others,  because  she  tipped  all  the 
edges  with  her  own  golden  fancy.  One  might  easily 
conjecture  that  there  was  poetry  in  the  souls  of  her 
ancestry  also ;  for  they  had  given  her  a  name  which 
signifies,  "  I  light  from  flying."  At  fourteen  years 
old,  she  was  shut  up  in  a  hut  by  herself,  to  fast  and 


164  SHE    WAITS    IN    THE    SPIRIT    LAND. 

dream,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  Indians.  She 
dreamed  that  the  Morning  Star  came  down  and  nestled 
in  her  bosom,  like  a  bird ;  therefore  she  chose  it  for 
the  Manitou,  or  Protecting  Spirit  of  her  life,  and 
uiiuel  hei  first-born  son  Wah-bu-nung-o,  an  Indian 
word  for  the  Morning  Star.  The  boy  was  handsome, 
brave  and  gentle ;  and  his  childhood  gave  early  indi 
cations  that  he  inherited  the  spiritual  and  poetic  ten 
dencies  of  his  mother.  At  the  threshold  of  his  young 
life,  he  too  was  set  apart  to  fast  and  dream.  He 
dreamed  of  a  wild  rose  bush,  in  full  bloom,  and  heard 
a  voice  saying,  "  She  will  wait  for  thee  in  the  spirit- 
land.  Do  not  forsake  her."  The  Wild  Rose  was 
accordingly  adopted  as  his  Manitou. 

In  a  neighbouring  wigwam,  was  a  girl  named 
O-ge-bu-no-qua,  which  signifies  the  Wild  Rose. 
When  she,  at  twelve  years  old,  was  sent  into  retire 
ment  to  fast  and  dream,  she  dreamed  of  a  Star ;  but 
she  could  tell  nothing  about  it,  only  that  it  was  mild, 
and  looked  at  her.  She  was  a  charming  child,  and 
grew  into  beautiful  maidenhood.  Her  dark  cheek  look 
ed  like  a  rich  brown  autumn  leaf,  faintly  tinged  with 
crimson.  Her  large  eyes,  shaded  with  deep  black 
fringe,  had  a  shy  and  somewhat  mournful  tenderness 
of  expression.  Her  voice  seemed  but  the  echo  of  her 
glance,  it  was  so  low  and  musical  in  tone,  so  plaintive 
in  its  cadences.  Her  well-rounded  figure  was  pliant 
and  graceful,  and  her  motions  were  like  those  of  some 
pretty,  timid  animal,  that  has  always  stepped  to 
sylvan  sounds. 

The  handsome  boy  was  but  two  years  older  than 
the  beautiful  girl.  In  childhood,  they  swung  together 


SHE    WAITS    IN    THE    SPIRIT    LAND.  165 

in  the  same  boughs,  hand  in  hand  they  clambered  the 
rocks,  and  gathered  the  flowers  and  berries  of  the 
woods.  Living  in  such  playful  familiarity  with  the 
deer  and  the  birds,  the  young  blood  flowed  fresh  and 
strong,  their  forms  were  vigorous,  and  their  motions 
flexile  and  free.  The  large  dark  eyes  of  Wah-bu- 
nung-o  were  tender  and  sad,  and  had  a  peculiarly 
deep,  spiritual,  inward-looking  expression,  as  if  he 
were  the  destined  poet  and  prophet  of  his  tribe.  But 
the  lofty  carriage  of  his  head,  the  Apollo  curve  of  his 
parted  lips,  and  his  aquiline  nose,  with  open  well- 
defined  nostrils,  expressed  the  pride  and  daring  of  a 
hunter  and  a  warrior. 

It  was  very  natural  that  the  maiden  should  some 
times  think  it  a  beautiful  coincidence  that  a  Star  was 
her  guardian  spirit,  and  this  handsome  friend  of  her 
childhood  was  named  the  Morning  Star.  And  when 
he  told  her  of  the  Wild  Rose  of  his  dream,  had  he  not 
likewise  some  prophetic  thoughts  ?  Fortunately  for 
the  free  and  beautiful  growth  of  their  love,  they  lived 
out  of  the  pale  of  civilization.  There  was  no  Mrs. 
Smith  to  remark  how  they  looked  at  each  other,  and 
no  Mrs.  Brown  to  question  the  propriety  of  their 
rambles  in  the  woods.  The  simple  philosophy  of  the 
Indians  had  never  taught  that  nature  was  a  sin,  and 
therefore  nature  was  troubled  with  no  sinful  conscious 
ness.  When  Wah-bu-nung-o  hunted  squirrels,  O-ge- 
bu-no-qua  thought  it  no  harm  to  gather  basket-stuff  in 
the  same  woods.  There  was  a  lovely  crescent-shaped 
island  opposite  the  village,  profusely  covered  with 
trees  and  vines,  and  carpeted  with  rich  grasses  and 
mosses,  strewn  with  flowers.  Clumps  of  young 


166  SHE    WAITS    IN    TMJ;    SPi    IT   LAND. 

birches  shone  among  the  dark  shrubbery,  like  slender 
columns  of  silver,  and  willows  stooped  so  low  to  look 
in  the  mirror  of  the  waters,  that  their  graceful  tresses 
touched  the  stream.  Here,  above  all  other  places,  did 
the  maiden  love  to  go  to  gather  twigs  for  baskets,  and 
the  young  man  to  select  wood  for  his  bows  and  arrows. 
Often,  when  day  was  declining,  and  the  calm  river 
reflected  the  Western  sky,  glowing  with  amber  light, 
and  fleckered  with  little  fleecy  rose-coloured  clouds, 
his  canoe  might  be  seen  gliding  across  the  waters. 
Sometimes  O-ge-bu-no-qua  was  waiting  for  him  on 
the  island,  and  sometimes  he  steered  the  boat  for  the 
grove  of  willows,  while  she  urged  it  forward  with  the 
light  swift  stroke  of  her  paddle. 

Civilized  man  is  little  to  be  trusted  under  such  cir 
cumstances  ;  but  nature,  subjected  to  no  false  re 
straints,  manifests  her  innate  modesty,  and  even  in 
her  child-like  abandonment  to  impulse,  rebukes  by  her 
innocence  the  unclean  self-consciousness  of  artificial 
society.  With  a  quiet  grave  tenderness,  the  young 
Indian  assisted  his  beautiful  companion  in  her  tasks, 
or  spoke  to  her  from  time  to  time,  as  they  met  by 
brook  or  grove,  in  the  pursuit  of  their  different  avo 
cations.  Her  Manitou,  the  Morning  Star  of  the  sky, 
could  not  have  been  more  truly  her  protecting  spirit. 

It  was  on  her  sixteenth  birth  day,  that  they,  for  the 
first  time,  lingered  on  the  island  after  twilight.  The 
Indians,  with  an  untaught  poetry  of  modesty,  never 
talk  of  love  under  the  bright  staring  gaze  of  day. 
Only  amid  the  silent  shadows  do  they  yield  to  its 
gentle  influence.  O-ge-bu-no-qua  was  born  with  the 
roses ;  therefore  this  birth-night  of  their  acknowledged 


SHE    WAITS    IN    THE    SPIRIT    LAND.  167 

love  was  in  that  beautiful  month,  named  by  the  Indians 
"  the  Moon  of  Flowers."  It  was  a  lovely  evening,  and 
surpassingly  fair  was  the  scene  around  them.  The  pic 
turesque  little  village  of  wigwams,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  river,  gave  a  smiling  answer  to  the  sun's  farewell. 
The  abrupt  heights  beyond  were  robed  in  the  richest 
foliage,  through  which  the  departing  rays  streamed 
like  a  golden  shower.  In  the  limitless  forest,  the 
tall  trees  were  of  noble  proportions,  because  they  had 
room  enough  to  grow  upward  and  outward,  with  a 
strong  free  grace.  In  the  flowery  glades  of  the  islands, 
flocks  of  pigeons,  and  other  smaller  birds,  cooed  and 
chirped.  Soon  all  subsided  into  moon-silence,  and 
the  elysian  stillness  was  interrupted  only  by  the  faint 
ripple  of  the  sparkling  river,  the  lone  cry  of  the  whip- 
powill,  or  the  occasional  plash  of  some  restless  bull 
frog.  The  lovers  sat  side  by  side  on  a  grassy  knoll. 
An  evening  breeze  gave  them  a  gentle  kiss  as  it  pass 
ed,  and  brought  them  a  love-token  of  fragrance  from 
a  rose-bush  that  grew  at  their  feet.  Wah-bu-nung-o 
gathered  one  of  the  blossoms,  by  the  dim  silvery  light, 
and  placing  it  in  the  hand  of  O-ge-bu-no-qua,  he  said, 
in  a  voice  tender  and  bashful  as  a  young  girl's, 
"  Thou  knowest  the  Great  Spirit  has  given  me  the 
wild  rose  for  a  Manitou.  I  have  told  thee  my  dream; 
but  I  have  never  told  thee,  thou  sweet  rose  of  my  life, 
how  sadly  I  interpret  it." 

She  nestled  closer  in  his  bosom,  and  gazing  ear 
nestly  on  a  bright  star  in  the  heavens,  the  Manitou 
of  her  own  existence,  she  murmured  almost  inaudibly, 
"  How  dost  thou  ?"  His  brave  strong  arm  encir 
cled  her  in  a  closer  embrace,  as  he  answered  with 


168  SHE    WAITS    IN    THE    SPIRIT   LAND. 

gentle  solemnity,  "  The  Rose  will  go  to  the  spirit-land, 
and  leave  her  Star  to  mourn  alone."  The  maiden's 
eyes  filled  with  tears,  as  she  replied,  "  But  the  Rose 
will  wait  for  her  Star.  Thus  said  the  voice  of  the 
dream." 

They  sat  silently  leaning  on  each  other,  till  Wah- 
bu-nung-o  took  up  the  pipe,  that  lay  beside  him,  and 
began  to  play.  Birds  sing  only  during  their  mating 
season;  their  twin-born  love  and  music  pass  away 
together,  with  the  roses  ;  and  the  Indian  plays  on  his 
pipe  only  while  he  is  courting.  It  is  a  rude  kind  of 
flute,  with  two  or  three  stops,  and  very  limited  variety 
of  tone.  The  life  of  a  savage  would  not  be  fitly  ex 
pressed  in  rich  harmonies  ;  and  life  in  any  form  never 
fashions  to  itself  instruments  beyond  the  wants  of  the 
soul.  But  the  sounds  of  this  pipe,  with  its  perpetual 
return  of  sweet  simple  chords,  and  its  wild  flourishes, 
like  the  closing  strain  of  a  bob  o'  link,  was  in  pleasing 
accord  with  the  primeval  beauty  of  the  scene.  When 
the  pipe  paused  for  awhile,  O-ge-bu-no-qua  warbled  a 
wild  plaintive  little  air,  which  her  mother  used  to  sing 
to  her,  when  she  swung  from  the  boughs  in  her  queer 
little  birch-bark  cradle.  Indian  music,  like  the  voices 
of  inanimate  nature,  the  wind,  the  forest,  and  the  sea, 
is  almost  invariably  in  the  minor  mode  ;  and  breathed 
as  it  now  was  to  the  silent  moon,  and  with  the  shadow 
of  the  dream  interpretation  still  resting  on  their  souls, 
it  was  oppressive  in  its  mournfulness.  The  song 
hushed ;  and  O-ge-bu-no-qua,  clinging  closer  to  her 
lover's  arm,  whispered  in  tones  of  superstitious 
fear,  "  Does  it  not  seem  to  you  as  if  the  Great  Spirit 
was  looking  at  us  ?"  "  Yes,  and  see  how  he  smiles," 


SHE    WAITS    IN    THE    SPIRIT    LAND.  169 

replied  Wah-bu-nung-o,  in  bolder  and  more  cheerful 
accents,  as  he  pointed  to  the  sparkling  waters  :  "  The 
deer  and  the  birds  are  not  sad ;  let  us  be  like  them." 
He  spoke  of  love  ;  of  the  new  wigwam  he  would 
build  for  his  bride,  and  the  game  he  would  bring 
down  with  his  arrow.  These  home-pictures  roused 
emotions  too  strong  for  words.  Stolid  and  impertur 
bable  as  the  Indian  race  seem  in  the  presenc?  cf  spec 
tators,  in  these  lonely  hours  with  the  beloved  one, 
they  too  learn  that  love  is  the  glowing  wine,  the  ex 
hilarating  "  fire-water"  of  the  soul. 

*         ****** 

When  they  returned,  no  one  questioned  them.  It 
was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  that  they 
should  love  each  other  ;  and  natural  politeness  respect 
ed  the  freedom  of  their  young  hearts.  No  marriage 
settlements,  no  precautions  of  the  law,  were  necessary. 
There  was  no  person  to  object,  whenever  he  chose  to 
lead  her  into  his  wigwam,  and  by  that  simple  circum 
stance  she  became  his  wife.  The  next  day,  as  0-ge- 
bu-no-qua  sat  under  the  shadow  of  an  elm,  busily 
braiding  mats,  Wah-bu-nung-o  passed  by,  carrying 
poles,  which  he  had  just  cut  in  the  woods.  He  stop 
ped  and  spoke  to  her,  and  the  glance  of  her  wild  mel 
ancholy  eye  met  his  with  a  beautiful  expression  of 
timid  fondness.  The  next  moment,  she  looked  down 
and  blushed  very  deeply.  The  poles  were  for  the 
new  wigwam,  and  so  were  the  mats  she  was  braiding ; 
and  she  had  promised  her  lover  that  as  soon  as  the 
wigwam  was  finished,  she  would  come  and  live  with 
him.  He  conjectured  her  thoughts ;  but  he  did  not 
smile,  neither  did  he  tell  her  that  her  blush  was  as 
15 


170  SHE    WAITS    EN    THE    SPIRIT    LAND. 

beautiful  as  the  brilliant  flower  of  the  Wickapee  ;  but 
that  bashful  loving  glance  filled  him  with  an  inward 
warmth.  Its  beaming,  yet  half-veiled  tenderness  pass 
ed  into  his  soul,  and  was  never  afterward  forgotten. 

That  afternoon,  all  the  young  men  of  the  tribe  went 
a  few  miles  up  the  river  to  fish.  Sad  tidings  awaited 
their  return.  Ong-pa-tonga,  the  Big  Elk,  chief  of  a 
neighbouring  tribe,  in  revenge  for  some  trifling  affront, 
had  attacked  the  village  in  their  absence,  wounded 
some  of  the  old  warriors,  and  carried  off  several  of 
the  women  and  children.  The  blooming  Wild  Rose 
was  among  the  captives.  Wah-bu-nung-o  was  frantic 
with  rage  and  despair.  A  demon  seemed  to  have 
taken  possession  of  his  brave,  but  usually  gentle  soul. 
He  spoke  few  words,  but  his  eyes  gleamed  with  a 
fierce  unnatural  fire.  He  painted  himself  with  the 
colours  of  eternal  enmity  to  the  tribe  of  Big  Elk,  and 
secretly  gloated  over  plans  of  vengeance.  An  oppor 
tunity  soon  offered  to  waylay  the  transgressors  on  their 
return  from  a  hunting  expedition.  Several  women 
accompanied  the  party,  to  carry  their  game  and  blan 
kets.  One  of  these,  the  wife  of  Big  Elk,  was  killed  by 
an  arrow,  and  some  of  the  men  were  wounded.  This 
slight  taste  of  vengeance  made  the  flames  of  hatred 
burn  more  intensely.  The  image  of  his  enemy  ex 
piring  by  slow  tortures  was  the  only  thought  that 
brought  pleasure  to  the  soul  of  Wah-bu-nung-o. 
Twice  he  had  him  nearly  in  his  power,  but  was  baffled 
by  cunning.  In  one  of  the  skirmishes  between  the 
contending  tribes,  he  took  captive  a  woman  and  her 
two  children.  Being  questioned  concerning  the  fate 
of  O-ge-bu-no-qua,  she  said  that  Big  Elk,  in  revenge 


SHE    WAITS    IN    THE    SPIRIT    LAND.  171 

for  the  loss  of  his  wife,  had  killed  her  with  his  war 
club.  For  a  moment,  Wah-bu-nung-o  stood  as  if  sud 
denly  changed  to  stone  ;  then  his  Indian  firmness  for 
sook  him,  ha  tore  his  hair,  and  howled  in  frantic 
agony.  But  in  the  midst  of  this  whirlwind  of  grief, 
the  memory  of  his  dream  came  like  a  still  small  voice, 
and  whispered,  "  She  waits  for  thee  in  the  spirit  land. 
Do  not  forsake  her."  The  mad  fire  of  his  eye  changed 
to  the  mildest  and  deepest  melancholy.  He  promised 
the  captive  that  she  and  her  children  should  be  treated 
kindly,  and  allowed  to  return  to  her  tribe,  if  she  would 
guide  him  to  the  maiden's  grave. 

Leaving  her  children  in  his  own  village,  as  a  secu 
rity  against  treachery,  he  followed  her  through  the  for 
est,  till  they  came  to  a  newly-made  mound,  with  a 
few  stones  piled  upon  it.  This  she  said  was  O-ge- 
bu-no-qua's  grave.  The  young  warrior  gazed  on  it 
silently,  with  folded  arms.  No  cry,  or  groan,  escaped 
him ;  though  in  the  depths  of  his  soul  was  sorrow 
more  bitter  than  death.  Thus  he  remained  for  a  long 
time.  At  last,  he  turned  to  take  a  careful  inspection 
of  the  scene  around  him,  and  marked  a  tree  with  the 
point  of  his  arrow.  Then  commanding  the  woman  to 
walk  before  him,  he  strode  homeward  in  perfect  silence. 
A  monotonous  accompaniment  of  tree- whispering  alone 
responded  to  the  farewell  dirge  in  his  heart.  As  he 
looked  on  the  boundless  wilderness,  and  gazed  into  its 
dark  mysterious  depths,  wild  and  solemn  reveries 
came  over  him ;  vast  shadowy  visions  of  life  and  death ; 
but  through  all  the  changes  of  his  thought  sounded 
the  ever-recurring  strain,  "  She  waits  for  thee  in  the 
spirit-land."  Then  came  the  dread  that  Big  Elk 


172  SHE    WAITS    IN    THE    SPIRIT    LAND. 

would  go  there  before  him,  and  would  persecute  his 
beloved,  as  he  had  done  during  her  life  in  the  body. 
An  impatient  shudder  went  over  him,  and  he  longed 
for  death ;  but  he  had  been  taught  to  consider  suicide 
a  cowardly  act,  and  he  was  awe-stricken  before  the 
great  mystery  of  the  soul.  The  dreadful  conflict  ter 
minated  in  one  calm  fixed  resolution.  He  determined 
to  relinquish  all  his  cherished  plans  of  vengeance,  and 
during  the  remainder  of  his  life  to  watch  over  Big 
Elk,  and  guard  him  from  danger,  that  he  might  not 
go  to  the  spirit-land  till  he  himself  was  there  to  pro 
tect  his  beloved. 

The  day  after  his  return  home,  he  told  his  mother 
that  he  must  go  away  to  fulfil  a  vow,  and  he  knew 
not  when  he  should  return.  He  earnestly  conjured 
his  brothers  to  be  kind  and  reverent  to  their  mother  ; 
then  bidding  them  a  calm  but  solemn  farewell,  he 
stepped  into  his  canoe,  and  rowed  over  to  the  Isle  of 
Willows.  Again  he  stood  by  the  grassy  knoll  where 
the  loved  one  had  lain  upon  his  breast.  The  rose 
bush  was  there,  tall  and  vigorous,  though  the  human 
Rose  had  passed  away,  to  return  no  more.  He  shed 
no  tears,  but  reverently  went  through  his  forms  of  wor 
ship  to  the  tutelary  spirit  of  his  life.  With  measured 
dance,  and  strange  monotonous  howls,  he  made  a  vow 
of  utter  renunciation  of  everything,  even  of  his  hopes 
of  vengeance,  if  he  might  be  permitted  to  protect  his 
beloved  in  the  spirit-land.  He  brought  water  from 
the  brook  in  a  gourd,  from  which  they  had  often  drunk 
together ;  he  washed  from  his  face  the  emblems  of 
eternal  enmity  to  Big  Elk,  and  with  solemn  ceremo 
nial  poured  it  on  the  roots  of  the  rose.  Then  he 


SHE    WAITS    TN    THE    SPIRIT    LAXD.  173 

rowed  far  up  the  river,  and  landed  near  the  grave,  on 
which  he  kindled  a  fire,  that  the  dear  departed  might 
be  lighted  to  the  spirit-land,  according  to  the  faith  of 
his  fathers.  He  buried  the  gourd  in  the  mound,  say 
ing,  "  This  I  send  to  thee,  my  Rose,  that  thou'mayest 
drink  from  it  in  the  spirit-land."  Three  nights  he 
tended  the  fire,  and  then  returned  for  the  rose-bush, 
which  he  planted  at  the  head  of  the  grave.  He  built 
a  wigwam  near  by,  and  dwelt  there  alone.  He  fear 
ed  neither  wild  beast  nor  enemies  ;  for  he  had  fulfil 
led  his  duties  to  the  dead,  and  now  his  only  wish  was 
to  go  and  meet  her.  Big  Elk  and  his  companions 
soon  discovered  him,  and  came  upon  him  with  their 
war-clubs.  He  stood  unarmed,  and  quietly  told  them 
he  had  consecrated  himself  by  a  vow  to  the  Great 
Spirit,  and  would  fight  no  more.  He  gazed  steadily 
in  the  face  of  his  enemy,  and  said,  if  they  wanted  his 
life,  they  were  welcome  to  take  it.  The  deep,  mourn 
ful,  supernatural  expression  of  his  eyes  inspired  them 
with  awe.  They  thought  him  insane  ;  and  all  such 
are  regarded  by  the  Indians  with  superstitious  fear 
and  reverence.  "  He  has  seen  the  door  of  the  spirit- 
land  opened,"  they  said  ;  "  the  moon  has  spoken  se 
crets  to  him  ;  and  the  Great  Spirit  is  angry  when  such 
are  harmed."  So  they  left  him  in  peace.  But  he 
sighed  as  they  turned  away  ;  for  he  had  hoped  to  die 
by  their  hands.  From  that  time  he  followed  Big  Elk 
like  his  shadow ;  but  always  to  do  him  service.  At 
first,  his  enemy  was  uneasy,  and  on  his  guard  ;  but 
after  awhile,  he  became  accustomed  to  his  presence, 
and  even  seemed  to  be  attached  to  him.  At  one  time, 
a  fever  brought  the  strong  man  to  the  verge  of  the 
15* 


174  SME    WAITS    IN    THE    SPIRIT    LAND. 

grave.  Wah-bu-nung-o  watched  over  him  with  trem 
bling  anxiety,  and  through  weary  days  and  sleepless 
nights  tended  him  as  carefully  as  a  mother  tends  her 
suffering  babe.  Another  time,  when  Big  Elk  was 
wounded  by  an  enemy,  he  drew  out  the  arrow,  sought 
medicinal  herbs,  and  healed  him.  Once,  when  he 
was  about  to  cross  a  wide  deep  ditch,  bridged  by  a 
single  tree,  Wah-bu-nung-o  perceived  a  rattle-snake 
on  the  bridge,  and  just  as  the  venomous  reptile  was 
about  to  spring,  his  arrow  nailed  him  to  the  tree. 

Thus  weary  months  passed  away.  The  mourner, 
meek  and  silent,  held  communion  with  his  Manitou, 
the  rose-bush,  to  which  he  repeated  often,  "  Bid  her 
look  to  the  Morning  Star,  and  fear  nothing.  I  will 
protect  her.  Tell  her  we  shall  meet  again  in  the 
spirit-land,  as  we  met  in  the  Isle  of  Willows."  Sad 
ly  but  mildly  his  eye  rested  on  the  murderer  of  his 
beloved,  and  he  tended  upon  him  with  patient  gentle 
ness,  that  seemed  almost  like  affection.  Very  beauti 
ful  and  holy  was  this  triumph  of  love  over  hatred, 
seeking  no  reward  but  death.  But  the  "  twin-brother 
of  sleep"  came  not  where  he  was  so  much  desired. 
Others  who  clung  to  life  were  taken,  but  the  widowed 
heart  could  not  find  its  rest.  At  last,  the  constant 
prayer  of  his  faithful  love  was  answered.  By  some 
accident,  Big  Elk  became  separated  from  his  hunting 
companions,  late  in  the  afternoon  of  a  winter's  day. 
There  came  on  a  blinding  storm  of  wind  and  snow 
and  sleet.  The  deep  drifts  were  almost  impassable, 
and  the  keen  air  cut  the  lungs,  like  particles  of  sharp 
ened  steel.  Night  came  down  in  robes  of  thick  dark 
ness.  Nothing  interrupted  her  solemn  silence,  but 


SHE    WAITS    IN    THE    SPIRIT    LAND.  175 

the  crackling  of  ice  from  the  trees,  and  the  moaning 
and  screaming  of  the  winds.  The  very  wolves  hid 
themselves  from  the  fury  of  the  elements.  While 
light  enough  remained  to  choose  a  shelter,  the  wan 
derers  took  refuge  in  a  deep  cleft  screened  by  pro 
jecting  rocks.  The  morning  found  them  stiff  and 
hungry,  and  almost  buried  in  snow.  With  much  dif 
ficulty  they  made  their  way  out  into  the  forest,  com 
pletely  bewildered,  and  guided  only  by  the  sun,  which 
glimmered  gloomily  through  the  thick  atmosphere. 
Two  days  they  wandered  without  food.  Toward 
night,  Wah-bu-nung-o  discovered  horns  projecting 
through  the  snow  ;  and  digging  through  the  drift,  he 
found  a  few  moose  bones,  on  which  the  wolves  had 
left  some  particles  of  flesh.  He  resisted  the  cravings 
of  hunger,  and  gave  them  all  to  his  famishing  enemy. 
As  twilight  closed,  they  took  shelter  in  a  large 
hollow  tree,  near  which  Wah-bu-nung-o,  with  the 
watchful  eye  of  love  and  faith,  observed  a  rose-bush, 
with  a  few  crimson  seed-vessels  shining  through 
the  snow.  He  stripped  some  trees,  and  covered 
Ong-pa-tonga  with  the  bark;  then  piling  up  snow 
before  the  entrance  to  the  tree,  to  screen  him  from 
the  cold,  he  bade  him  sleep,  while  he  kept  watch. 
Ong-pa-tonga  asked  to  be  awakened,  that  he  might 
watch  in  his  turn  ;  but  to  this  his  anxious  guardian  re 
turned  no  answer.  The  storm  had  passed  away  and 
left  an  atmosphere  of  intense  cold.  The  Stars  glittered 
in  the  deep  blue  sky,  like  points  of  steel.  Weary,  faint, 
and  starving,  Wah-bu-nung-o  walked  slowly  back  and 
forth.  When  he  felt  an  increasing  numbness  stealing 
over  his  limbs,  a  disconsolate  smile  gleamed  on  his 


176  SHE    WAITS    IN    THE    SPIRIT    LAND. 

countenance,  and  he  offered  thanks  to  the  Manitou  bush 
by  his  side.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  smiled  since 
his  Wild  Rose  was  taken  from  him.  Presently,  the 
howl  of  wolves  was  heard  far  off.  He  kept  more 
carefully  near  the  tree  where  his  enemy  slept,  and 
listened  to  ascertain  in  what  direction  the  ravenous 
beasts  would  come.  "  They  shall  eat  me  first,  before 
they  find  their  way  to  him,"  he  said  ;  "  She  would  be 
so  frightened  to  see  his  spirit,  before  mine  came  to 
protect  her."  But  the  dismal  sounds  died  away  in 
the  distance,  and  were  heard  no  more.  Panting  and 
staggering,  the  patient  sufferer  fell  on  the  ground,  at 
the  foot  of  the  rose-bush,  and  prayed  imploringly, 
"  Let  not  the  wild  beasts  devour  him,  while  I  lie  here 
insensible.  Oh,  send  me  to  the  spirit-land,  that  I  may 
protect  her  !"  He  gasped  for  breath,  and  a  film  came 
over  his  eyes,  so  that  he  could  no  longer  see  the  stars. 
How  long  he  remained  thus,  no  one  ever  knew. 

Suddenly  all  was  light  around  him.  The  rose 
bush  bloomed,  and  O-ge-bu-no-qua  stood  before  him, 
with  the  same  expression  of  bashful  love  he  had  last 
seen  in  her  beautiful  eyes.  "  I  have  been  ever  near 
thee,"  she  said  ;  "  Hast  thou  not  seen  me  ?" 

"  Where  am  I,  my  beloved  ?"  he  exclaimed  :  "  Are 
we  in  the  Isle  of  Willows  ?" 

"  We  are  in  the  spirit-land,"  she  answered :  "  Thy 
Rose  has  waited  patiently  for  the  coming  of  her 
Morning  Star." 


A  POET'S  DRE1M  OF  THE  SOUL. 


For,  as  be  all  bards,  he  was  born  of  beauty, 

And  with  a  natural  fitness  to  draw  down 

All  tones  and  shades  of  beauty  to  his  soul, 

Even  as  the  rainbow-tinted  shell,  which  lies 

Miles  deep  at  bottom  of  the  sea,  hath  all 

Colours  of  skies  and  flowers,  and  gems  and  plumes. — FESTtis. 

Forms  are  like  sea-shells  on  the  shore ;  they  show 

Where  the  mind  ends,  and  not  how  far  it  has  been. — IBID. 

HIDDEN  among  common  stones,  in  a  hill-side  of 
Germany,  an  agate  reposed  in  deep  tranquillity.  The 
roots  of  a  violet  twined  about  it,  and  as  they  embraced 
more  and  more  closely,  year  by  year,  there  grew  up 
a  silent  friendship  between  the  stone  and  the  flower. 
In  Spring,  when  the  plant  moved  above  the  surface  of 
the  earth,  it  transmitted  genial  sun-warmth,  and  car 
ried  dim  amethystine  light  into  the  dark  home  of  the 
mineral.  Lovingly  it  breathed  forth  the  secrets  of  its 
life,  but  the  agate  could  not  understand  its  speech ; 
for  a  lower  form  of  existence  has  merely  a  vague  feel 
ing  of  the  presence  of  the  grade  above  it.  But  from 
circling  degrees  of  vegetable  life,  spirally,  through  the 
violet,  passed  a  subtle  influence  into  the  heart  of  the 
agate.  It  wanted  to  grow,  to  spread,  to  pass  upward 
into  the  light.  But  the  laws  of  its  being  girdled  it 
round  like  a  chain  of  iron. 

A  shepherd  came  and  stretched  himself  fondly  by 


178  A  POET'S  DREAM  OF  THE  SOUL. 

the  side  of  the  violet,  and  piped  sweet  pastoral  music, 
thinking  the  while  of  the  fragrant  breath  and  deep 
blue  eyes  of  her  he  loved.  The  flower  recognised  the 
tones  as  a  portion  of  its  own  soul,  and  breathed  forth 
perfumes  in  harmony.  Her  deeply  moved  inward 
joy  was  felt  by  the  mineral,  and  kindled  enthusiastic 
longing.  Under  the  glow  which  renders  all  forms 
fluid,  the  chain  of  necessity  relaxed,  and  the  agate 
expressed  its  aspiration  for  vegetable  life,  in  the  form 
of  mosses,  roots,  and  leaves.  But  soon  it  touched  the 
wall  of  limitation ;  upward  it  could  not  grow. 

A  compounder  of  medicines  and  amulets  came  dig 
ging  for  roots  and  minerals.  He  pounded  the  moss- 
agate  to  dust,  and  boiled  it  with  the  violet.  The 
souls  passed  away  from  the  destroyed  forms,  to  enter 
again  at  some  perfect  union  of  Thought  and  Affection, 
a  marriage  between  some  of  the  infinitely  various 
manifestations  of  this  central  duality  of  the  universe. 
The  spirit  of  the  agate  floated  far,  and  was  finally  at 
tracted  toward  a  broad  inland  lake  in  the  wilds  of 
unknown  America.  The  water-lilies  were  making 
love,  and  it  passed  into  the  seed  to  which  their  union 
gave  birth.  In  the  deep  tranquillity  of  the  forest,  it 
lived  a  snowy  lily  with  a  golden  heart,  gently  swayed 
on  the  waters,  to  the  sound  of  rippling  murmurs. 
Brightly  solemn  was  the  moon-stillness  there.  It 
agitated  the  breast  of  the  lily  ;  for  the  mild  planet  shed 
dewy  tears  on  his  brow,  as  he  lay  sleeping,  and  seem 
ed  to  say  mournfully,  "  I  too  am  of  thy  kindred,  yet 
thou  dost  not  know  me." 

Soon  came  the  happy  days  when  the  lily  wooed  his 
bride.  Gracefully  she  bowed  toward  him,  and  a  de- 


A    POET'S    DREAM    OF    THE    SOUL.  179 

licious  languor  melted  his  whole  being,  as  he  fondly 
veiled  her  in  a  golden  shower  of  aroma.  Its  spiritual 
essence  pervaded  the  atmosphere.  The  birds  felt  its 
influence,  though  they  knew  not  whence  it  was.  The 
wood-pigeons  began  to  coo,  and  the  mocking-bird 
poured  forth  all  the  loves  of  the  forest.  The  flowers 
thrilled  responsive  to  their  extremest  roots,  and  all  the 
little  blossoms  wanted  to  kiss  each  other. 

The  remembrance  of  mineral  existence  had  passed 
away  from  the  lily;  but  with  these  sounds  came  vague 
reminiscences  of  kindred  vibrations,  that  wrote  the 
aspiration  of  the  agate  in  mossy  hieroglyphics  on  its 
bosom.  Among  the  tall  trees,  a  vine  was  dancing 
and  laughing  in  the  face  of  the  sun.  "  It  must  be  a 
pleasant  life  to  swing  so  blithely  high  up  in  the  air," 
thought  the  lily :  "  O,  what  would  I  give  to  be  so 
much  nearer  to  the  stars  !"  He  reared  his  head,  and 
tried  to  imitate  the  vine  ;  but  the  waters  gently  swayed 
him  backward,  and  he  fell  asleep  on  the  bosom  of  the 
lake.  A  troop  of  buffaloes  came  to  drink,  and  in  wild 
sport  they  pulled  up  the  lilies,  and  tossed  them  on 
their  horns. 

The  soul,  going  forth  to  enter  a  new  body,  arrived 
on  the  southern  shores  of  the  Rhone,  at  the  courting 
time  of  blossoms,  and  became  a  winged  seed,  from 
which  a  vine  leaped  forth.  Joyous  was  its  life  in  that 
sunny  clime  of  grapes  and  olives.  Beautiful  rainbow- 
tinted  fairies  hovered  about  it  in  swarms.  They 
waltzed  on  the  leaves,  and  swung  from  the  tendrils, 
playing  all  manner  of  merry  tricks.  If  a  drowsy  one 
fell  asleep  in  the  flower-bells,  they  tormented  him 
without  mercy,  tickling  his  nose  with  a  butterfly's 


180  A  POET'S  DREAM  OF  THE  SOUL. 

feather,  or  piping  through  straws  in  his  ear.  Not  a 
word  of  love  could  the  vine-blossoms  breathe  to  each 
other,  but  the  mischievous  fairies  were  listening ;  and 
with  a  zephyry  laugh  of  silvery  sweetness,  they  would 
sing,  "  Aha,  we  hear  you !"  Then  the  blossoms 
would  throw  perfumes  at  them,  and  they  would  dance 
away,  springing  from  leaf  to  leaf,  still  shouting,  "  Aha, 
we  heard  you  !"  The  next  minute,  the  whole  troop 
would  be  back  again,  making  ugly  faces  from  a  knot 
hole  in  the  tree,  pelting  the  blossoms  with  dew-drops, 
or  disturbing  their  quiet  loves  with  a  serenade  of  mus- 
quito  trumpets,  and  a  grotesque  accompaniment  of 
cricket-rasping.  But  the  blossoms  delighted  in  the 
frolicksome  little  imps ;  for  their  capers  were  very 
amusing,  and  at  heart  they  were  real  friends  to  love, 
and  always  ready  to  carry  perfumes,  or  presents  of 
golden  flower-dust,  from  one  to  another,  on  their  tiny 
wands.  They  could  not  reveal  secrets,  if  they  would ; 
because  the  flowers  and  the  fairies  have  no  secrets ; 
but  many  a  graceful  song  they  sang  of  Moth-feather 
kissed  by  Fly-wing,  as  she  lay  pretending  to  be  asleep 
in  a  Fox-glove ;  or  how  Star-twinkle  serenaded  Dew- 
drop  in  the  bosom  of  a  Rose. 

It  was  a  pleasant  life  the  vine  led  among  the  but 
terflies  and  fairies  ;  but  the  stars  seemed  just  as  far 
off  as  when  he  was  a  lily  ;  and  when  he  saw  the  great 
trees  spread  their  branches  high  above  him,  he  wish 
ed  that  he  could  grow  strong,  brave,  and  self-sustain 
ing,  like  them.  While  such  wishes  were  in  his  heart, 
a  traveller  passed  that  way,  singing  light  carols  as  he 
went.  With  careless  gayety  he  switched  the  vine,  the 
stem  broke,  and  it  hung  fainting  from  the  branches. 


A   POET'S    DREAM    OF    THE    SOTTL.  181 

The  fairies  mourned  over  the  drooping  blossoms,  and 
sang-  sweet  requiems  as  its  spirit  passed  away. 

On  the  heights  of  Mount  Helicon,  oak-blossoms 
were  tremulous  with  love  when  the  vine-spirit  floated 
over  them.  He  entered  into  an  acorn,  and  became  an 
oak.  Serenely  noble  was  his  life,  in  a  grove  conse 
crated  to  the  Muses.  With  calm  happiness  he  gazed 
upon  the  silent  stars,  or  watched  his  own  majestic 
shadow  dancing  on  the  verdant  turf,  enamelled  with 
flowers,  which  filled  the  whole  air  with  fragrance. 
The  olive  trees,  the  walnuts,  and  the  almonds,  whisper 
ed  to  him  all  the  stories  of  their  loves;  and  the  zephyrs, 
as  they  flew  by,  lingered  among  his  branches,  to  tell 
marvellous  stories  of  the  winds  they  had  kissed  in 
foreign  climes.  The  Dryads,  as  they  leaned  against 
him,  and  lovingly  twined  each  other  with  vernal 
crowns  from  his  glossy  leaves,  talked  of  primal  spirits, 
veiled  in  never-ending  varieties  of  form,  gliding  in 
harmonies  through  the  universe.  The  murmur  of 
bees,  the  music  of  pastoral  flutes,  and  the  silvery  flow 
of  little  waterfalls,  mingled  ever  with  the  melodious 
chime  of  these  divine  voices.  Sometimes,  long  pro 
cessions  of  beautiful  youths,  crowned  with  garlands, 
and  bearing  branches  of  laurel,  passed  slowly  by, 
singing  choral  hymns  in  worship  of  the  Muses.  The 
guardian  Nymphs  of  fountains  up  among  the  hills 
leaned  forward  on  their  flowing  urns,  listening  to  the 
tuneful  sounds  ;  and  often  the  flash  of  Apollo's  harp 
might  be  seen  among  the  trees,  lightening  the  forest 
with  a  golden  fire. 

Amid  this  quiet  grandeur,  the  oak  forgot  the  pretti- 
ness  of  his  life  with  the  nimble  fairies.     But  when  he 
16 


1S2  A  POET'S  DREAM  OF  THE  SOUL. 

looked  down  on  little  streams  fringed  with  oleander 
and  myrtle,  or  saw  bright-winged  butterflies  and  ra 
diant  little  birds  sporting  in  vine-festoons,  he  felt  a 
sympathy  with  the  vines  and  the  blossoms,  as  if  they 
were  somehow  allied  to  his  own  being.  The  motion 
of  the  busy  little  animals  excited  a  vague  restlessness  ; 
and  when  he  saw  goats  skip  from  rock  to  rock,  or 
sheep  following  the  flute  of  the  shepherd  far  over  the 
plain,  the  sap  moved  more  briskly  in  his  veins,  and  he 
began  to  ask,  "  How  is  it  beyond  those  purple  hills  ? 
Do  trees  and  Dryads  live  there  ?  And  these  moving 
things,  are  their  loves  more  lively  and  perfect  than 
ours  ?  Why  cannot  I  also  follow  that  music  ?  Why 
must  I  stand  still,  and  wait  for  all  things  to  come  to 
me?"  Even  the  brilliant  lizard,  when  he  crawled 
over  his  bark,  or  twined  about  his  stems,  roused  with 
in  him  a  faint  desire  for  motion.  And  when  the 
winds  and  the  trees  whispered  to  him  their  pastoral 
romances,  he  wondered  whether  the  pines,  the  hazels, 
and  the  zephyrs,  there  beyond,  could  tell  the  story  of 
love  between  the  moon  and  the  hills,  that  met  so  near 
them,  to  bid  each  other  farewell  with  such  a  lingering 
kiss.  There  came  no  answer  to  these  queries  ;  but 
the  marble  statue  of  Euterpe,  in  the  grove  below, 
smiled  significantly  upon  him,  and  the  bright  war- 
blings  of  a  flute  were  heard,  which  sounded  like  the 
utterance  of  her  srnile.  A  Dryad,  crowned  with  lau 
rel,  and  bearing  a  branch  of  laurel  in  her  hands,  was 
inspired  by  the  Muse,  and  spake  prophetically  :  "  That 
was  the  divine  voice  of  Euterpe,"  she  says;  "be  patient, 
and  I  will  reveal  all  things." 

Long   stood  the  oak  among  those  Grecian  hills. 


A  POET'S  DREAM  OF  THE  SOUL.        183 

The  whisperings  of  the  forest  became  like  the  voices 
of  familiar  friends.  But  those  grand  choral  hymns, 
accompanied  by  warblings  of  Euterpe's  flute,  with 
harmonic  vibrations  from  Erato's  silver  lyre,  and 
Apollo's  golden  harp,  remained  mysteries  profound  as 
the  stars.  Yet  all  his  fibres  unconsciously  moved  in 
harmony,  the  unintelligible  sounds  passed  into  his 
inmost  being,  and  modified  his  outward  growth.  In" 
process  of  time,  a  woodcutter  felled  the  magnificent 
tree,  for  pillars  to  an  altar  of  Jove ;  and  weeping  Dry 
ads  threw  mosses  and  green  garlands  over  the  decay 
ing  roots. 

A  beautiful  lizard,  with  bright  metallic  hues,  glided 
about  on  the  trees  and  temples  of  Herculaneum.  He 
forgot  that  he  had  ever  been  an  oak,  nor  did  he  know 
that  he  carried  on  his  back  the  colours  of  the  faery 
songs  he  had  heard  as  a  vine.  He  led  a  pleasant  life 
under  the  shadow  of  the  leaves,  but  when  Autumn 
was  far  advanced,  he  found  a  hole  in  the  ground, 
under  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  theatre,  and  crept  into 
the  crevice  of  a  stone  to  sleep.  A  torpor  came  over 
him,  at  first  occasionally  startled  by  the  sharp  clash 
of  cymbals,  or  the  deep  sonorous  voice  of  trombones, 
from  within  the  building.  But  the  wind  blew  sand 
into  the  crevice,  the  earth  covered  him,  and  the  un 
conscious  lizard  was  entombed  alive.  Processions  of 
drunken  Bacchantes,  with  all  their  furious  uproar,  did 
not  rouse  him  from  his  lethargy.  Vesuvius  roared, 
as  it  poured  out  rivers  of  fire,  but  he  heard  it  not. 
Through  the  lapse  of  silent  centuries,  he  lay  there 
within  a  buried  city,  in  a  sepulchre  of  lava.  But  not 
even  that  long,  long  sleep,  without  a  dream,  could 


184  A  POET'S  DREAM  OF  THE  SOUL. 

efface  the  impressions  of  his  past  existences.  At  last, 
some  workmen,  digging  for  a  well;  struck  upon  a 
statue,  and  the  lost  city  was  discovered.  Breaking 
away  the  lava  with  pickaxes  and  hammers,  they  dash 
ed  in  pieces  the  stone  into  which  the  lizard  had  crept. 
He  gasped  when  the  fresh  air  came  upon  him,  and 
died  instantly.  His  lizard-life  had  passed  without  as 
piration,  and  long  imprisonment  had  made  him  averse 
to  light.  He  slipped  under  ground,  and  became  a 
mole,  blind  as  when  he  was  an  agate.  He  could  not 
see  the  beauty  of  the  flowers,  or  the  glory  of  the  stars. 
But  music,  the  universal  soul  of  all  things,  came  to 
him  also.  A  lark  built  her  nest  on  the  ground  near 
by ;  and  when  she  returned  to  her  little  ones,  the 
joyful  trill  of  her  gushing  tones  was  so  full  of  sun 
light,  that  it  warmed  the  heart  of  the  poor  little  mole. 
He  could  not  see  where  the  lark  went,  when  he 
heard  her  clear  notes  ascending  far  into  the  sky  ;  but 
he  felt  the  expression  of  a  life  more  free  and  bright 
than  his  own,  and  he  grew  weary  of  darkness  and 
silence.  As  he  came  out  oftener  to  feel  the  sunshine, 
his  rich  brown  glossy  fur  attracted  the  attention  of  a 
boy,  who  caught  him  in  a  trap. 

The  emancipated  spirit  passed  where  birds  were 
mating  on  the  sea  shore,  and  became  a  halcyon.  He 
wooed  a  lady-bird,  and  she  was  enamoured  of  his  beau 
ty,  though  neither  of  them  knew  that  the  lark's  song 
was  painted  in  rainbow-tints  upon  his  plumage. 
Their  favourite  resort  was  a  cave  in  the  Isle  of  Staffa. 
Season  after  season,  he  and  his  successive  lady-loves 
went  there  to  rear  their  young,  in  a  deep  hole  of  the 
rock,  where  the  tide,  as  it  ebbs  and  flows,  makes 


A  POET'S  DREAM  OF  THE  SOUL.        185 

strange  wild  melody.  As  the  mother  brooded  over 
her  nest,  he  sat  patiently  by  her  side,  listening  to  the 
measured  rhythm  of  the  sea,  and  the  wild  crescendo 
of  the  winds.  When  storms  subsided,  and  rainbows 
spanned  the  rocky  island,  sirens  and  mermaids  came 
riding  on  the  billows,  with  pearls  in  their  hair,  sing 
ing  of  submarine  gardens,  where  groves  of  fan-coral 
bend  like  flexile  willows,  and  yellow  and  crimson  sea 
weeds  float  in  their  fluid  element,  as  gracefully  as 
banners  on  the  wind.  The  halcyons,  as  they  glided 
above  the  white  wave-wreaths,  or  sat  on  the  rocks 
watching  for  food,  often  saw  these  fantastic  creatures 
swimming  about,  merrily  pelting  each  other  with  peb 
bles  and  shells  ;  and  their  liquid  laughter,  mingled 
with  snatches  of  song,  might  be  heard  afar,  as  they 
went  deep  down  to  their  grottoes  in  the  sea. 

When  Winter  approached,  the  happy  birds  flew  to 
more  Southern  climes.  During  these  inland  visits, 
the  halcyon  again  heard  the  song  of  the  lark.  It 
moved  him  strangely,  and  he  tried  to  imitate  it ;  but 
the  sounds  came  from  his  throat  in  harsh  twirls,  and 
refused  to  echo  his  tuneful  wishes.  One  day,  as  the 
beautiful  bird  sat  perched  on  a  twig,  gazing  intently 
into  the  stream,  and  listening  to  woodland  warbles,  a 
sportsman  pointed  his  gun  at  him,  and  killed  him  in 
stantly. 

The  spirit,  hovering  over  Italian  shores,  went  into 
the  egg  of  a  nightingale,  and  came  forth  into  an  earth 
ly  paradise  of  soft  sunny  valleys,  and  vine-clad  hills, 
with  urns  and  statues  gleaming  amid  dark  groves  of 
cypress  and  cedar.  When  the  moon  rose  above  the 
hills,  with  her  little  one,  the  evening  star,  by  her  side, 


186  A  POET'S  DREAM  OF  THE  SOUL. 

and  twilight  threw  over  the  lovely  landscape  a  veil  of 
rose-coloured  mist,  the  bird  felt  the  pervading  pres 
ence  of  the  beautiful,  and  poured  forth  his  soul  in 
songs  of  exquisite  tenderness.  Plaintive  were  the 
tones  ;  for  the  moon  spoke  into  his  heart  far  more  sad 
ly  than  when  he  was  a  water-lily,  and  with  her  solemn 
voice  was  mingled  the  chime  of  vesper  bells  across 
the  water,  the  melancholy  cry  of  gondoliers,  and  the 
measured  plash  of  their  oars.  When  the  sun  came 
up  in  golden  splendour,  flooding  hill  and  dale  with  bril 
liant  light,  the  nightingale  nestled  with  his  lady-love 
in  cool  sequestered  groves  of  cypress  and  ilex,  and 
listened  in  dreamy  revery  to  the  trickling  of  many 
fountains.  Fairies  came  there  and  danced  in  graceful 
undulations,  to  music  of  liquid  sweetness.  In  their 
wildest  mirth,  they  were  not  so  giddy-paced  as  the 
pretty  caperers  of  the  Rhone,  and  more  deeply  pas 
sionate  were  the  love-stories  they  confided  to  the  sym 
pathizing  nightingale.  When  the  solemn  swell  of  the 
church  organ  rose  on  the  breeze,  the  fairies  hid  away 
timidly  under  leaves,  while  human  voices  chanted 
their  hymns  of  praise.  The  nightingale,  too,  listened 
with  awe ;  the  majestic  sounds  disturbed  him,  like 
echoes  of  thunder  among  the  hills.  His  mate  had 
built  her  nest  in  low  bushes,  on  the  shore  of  a  broad 
lagune,  and  there  he  was  wont  to  sing  to  her  at  even 
tide.  The  gondolas,  as  they  glided  by,  with  lights 
glancing  on  the  water,  passed  his  home  more  slowly, 
that  passengers  might  listen  to  the  flowing  song. 
One  night,  a  violinist  in  the  gondola  responded  to  his 
lay.  The  nightingale  answered  with  an  eager  gush. 
Again  the  violin  replied,  more  at  length.  Sadly,  and 


A    POET'S    DREAM    OF    THE    SOUL.  187 

with  a  lingering  sweetness,  the  nightingale  resumed  ; 
but  suddenly  broke  off,  and  went  silent.  The  musi 
cian  slept  on  shore,  and  played  a  long  time  under  the 
shadow  of  the  groves,  to  the  ears  of  his  lady-love,  who 
leaned  from  her  balcony  to  listen.  Wildly  throbbed  the 
pulses  of  the  nightingale.  What  was  this  enchanting 
voice?  It  repeated  the  sky-tone  of  the  lark,  the  drowsy 
contemplations  of  the  water-lily  communing  with 
the  moon,  the  trills  of  fairies  frisking  among  the  vine- 
blossoms,  the  whispers  of  winds,  and  trees,  and  streams, 
the  siren's  song,  and  the  mermaid's  laugh.  With  all 
these  he  had  unconsciously  acquired  sympathy,  in  the 
progress  of  his  being ;  but  mingled  with  them  was  a 
mysterious  utterance  of  something  deeper  and  more 
expansive,  that  thrilled  his  little  bosom  with  an  agony 
of  aspiration.  When  the  violin  was  itself  a  portion  of 
trees,  the  music  of  winds,  and  leaves,  and  streams, 
and  little  birds,  had  passed  into  its  heart.  The  poet's 
soul  likewise  listens  passively  to  the  voices  of  nature, 
and  receives  them  quietly,  as  a  divine  influx.  The 
violin  knew  by  the  poet's  manner  of  questioning,  that 
he  could  understand  her,  and  she  told  him  all  the 
things  she  had  ever  heard.  But  by  reason  of  this 
divine  harmony  between  them,  his  human  soul  breath 
ed  through  her,  and  made  her  the  messenger  of  joys 
and  sorrows  far  deeper  than  her  own.  This  it  was 
that  troubled  the  breast  of  the  nightingale.  The  next 
evening  he  flooded  the  whole  valley  with  a  rich  tide 
of  song.  Men  said,  "  Did  ever  bird  sing  so  divinely  ?" 
But  he  felt  how  far  inferior  it  was  to  those  heavenly 
tones,  which  repeated  all  the  things  he  had  ever 


188  A  POET'S  DREAM  OF  THE  SOUL. 

heard,  and  oppressed  him  with  a  prophecy  of  things 
unknown.  Evening  by  evening,  his  song  grew  more 
sad  in  its  farewell  sweetness,  and  at  last  was  heard 
no  more.  He  had  pined  away  and  died,  longing  for 
the  voice  of  the  violin. 

In  a  happy  German  home,  a  young  wife  leaned 
lovingly  on  the  bosom  of  her  chosen  mate.  They 
were  not  aware  that  the  spirit  of  a  nightingale  was 
circling  round  them  and  would  pass  into  the  soul  of 
their  infant  son,  whom  they  named  Felix  Mendelssohn. 
The  poet-musician,  as  he  grew  to  manhood,  lost  all 
recollection  of  his  own  transmigrations.  But  often 
when  his  human  eyes  gazed  on  lovely  scenes  for  the 
first  time,  Nature  looked  at  him  so  kindly,  and  all  her 
voices  spoke  so  familiarly,  that  it  seemed  as  if  his 
soul  must  have  been  there  before  him.  The  moon 
claimed  kindred  with  him,  and  lulled  him  into 
dreamy  revery,  as  she  had  done  when  the  undulating 
waters  cradeled  him  as  a  lily.  In  music,  he  asked 
the  fair  planet  concerning  all  this,  and  why  she  and 
the  earth  always  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  with 
such  saddened  love.  Poets,  listening  to  the  Concerto,1* 
heard  in  it  the  utterance  of  their  souls  also  ;  and  they 
will  give  it  again  in  painting,  sculpture,  and  verse. 
Thus  are  all  forms  intertwined  by  the  pervading  spirit 
which  flows  through  them. 

The  sleeping  flowers  wakened  vague  reminiscences 
of  tiny  radiant  forms.  Mendelssohn  called  to  them  in 
music,  and  the  whole  faery  troop  came  dancing  on 
moon-beams  into  his  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream." 

*  Concerto  for  the  piano,  in  G  Minor. 


A   POET'S    DREAM    OF    THE    SOUL.  189 

The  sight  of  temples  and  statues  brought  shadowy 
dreams  of  Druids,  and  consecrated  groves,  of  choral 
hymns,  and  the  rich  vibrations  of  Apollo's  harp. 
Serene  in  classic  beauty,  these  visions  float  through 
the  music  of  "  Antigone." 

The  booming  of  waves,  and  the  screaming  of  gulls, 
stirred  halcyon  recollections.  He  asked  in  music 
whence  they  came,  and  Euterpe  answered  in  the  pic 
turesque  sea-wildness  of  his  "  Fingal's  Cave." 

The  song  of  the  nightingale  brought  dim  memories 
of  a  pure  brilliant  atmosphere,  of  landscapes  tinted 
with  prismatic  splendour,  of  deep  blue  lakes  dimpled 
with  sun-flecks ;  and  gracefully  glides  the  gondola, 
under  the  glowing  sky  of  Italy,  through  the  flowing 
melody  of  his  "  Songs  without  Words." 

But  music  is  to  him  as  the  violin  was  to  the  night 
ingale.  It  repeats,  with  puzzling  vagueness,  all  he 
has  ever  known,  and  troubles  his  spirit  with  prophe 
cies  of  the  infinite  unknown.  Imploringly  he  asks 
Euterpe  to  keep  her  promise,  and  reveal  to  him  all 
the  secrets  of  the  universe.  Graciously  and  con 
fidingly  she  answers.  But  as  it  was  with  the  night 
ingale,  so  is  it  with  him;  the  utterance  belongs  to 
powers  above  the  circle  of  his  being,  and  he  cannot 
comprehend  it  now.  Through  the  gate  which  men 
call  Death,  he  will  pass  into  more  perfect  life,  where 
speech  and  tone  dwell  together  forever  in  a  golden 
marriage. 


THE   BLACK   SAXONS. 


Tyrants  are  but  the  spawn  of  ignorance, 

Begotten  by  the  slaves  they  trample  on; 

Who,  could  they  win  a  glimmer  of  the  light, 

And  see  that  tyranny  is  always  weakness, 

Or  fear  with  its  own  bosom  ill  at  ease, 

Would  laugh  away  in  scorn  the  sand-wove  chain, 

Which  their  own  blindness  feigned  for  adamant. 

Wrong  ever  builds  on  quicksands ;  but  the  Kight 

To  the  firm  centre  lays  its  moveless  base.— J.  R.  LOWELL. 

MR.  DUNCAN  was  sitting  alone  in  his  elegantly  fur 
nished  parlour,  in  the  vicinity  of  Charleston,  South 
Carolina.  Before  him  lay  an  open  volume,  Thierry's 
History  of  the  Norman  Conquest.  From  the  natural 
kindliness  of  his  character,  and  democratic  theories 
deeply  imbibed  in  childhood,  his  thoughts  dwelt  more 
with  a  nation  prostrated  and.  kept  in  base  subjection  by 
the  strong  arm  of  violence,  than  with  the  renowned 
robbers,"  who  seized  their  rich  possesions,  and  haugh 
tily  trampled  on  their  dearest  rights. 

"  And  so  that  bold  and  beautiful  race  became  slaves !" 
thought  he.  "  The  brave  and  free-souled  Harolds, 
strong  of  heart  and  strong  of  arm ;  the  fair-haired 
Ediths,  in  their  queenly  beauty,  noble  in  soul  as  well 
as  ancestry ;  these  all  sank  to  the  condition  of  slaves. 
They  tamely  submitted  to  their  lot,  till  their  free, 
bright  beauty  passed  under  the  heavy  cloud  of  animal 
dullness,  and  the  contemptuous  Norman  epithet  of 


THE    BLACK   SAXONS.  191 

'base  Saxon  churls'  was  but  too  significantly  true. 
Yet  not  without  efforts  did  they  thus  sink.  How  of 
ten  renewed,  or  how  bravely  sustained,  we  know  not ; 
for  Troubadours  rarely  sing  of  the  defeated,  and  con 
querors  write  their  own  History.  That  they  did  not 
relinquish  freedom  without  a  struggle,  is  proved  by 
Robin  Hood  and  his  bold  followers,  floating  in  dim  and 
shadowy  glory  on  the  outskirts  of  history ;  brave  out 
laws  of  the  free  forest,  and  the  wild  mountain-passes, 
taking  back,  in  the  very  teeth  of  danger,  a  precarious 
subsistence  from  the  rich  possessions  that  were  once 
their  own  ;  and  therefore  styled  thieves  and  traitors  by 
the  robbers  who  had  beggared  them.  Doubtless  they 
had  minstrels  of  their  own ;  unknown  in  princely 
halls,  untrumpeted  by  fame,  yet  singing  of  their  ex 
ploits  in  spirit-stirring  tones,  to  hearts  burning  with  a 
sense  of  wrong.  Troubled  must  be  the  sleep  of  those 
who  rule  a  conquered  nation  !" 

These  thoughts  were  passing  through  his  mind, 
when  a  dark  mulatto  opened  the  door,  and  making  a 
servile  reverence,  said,  in  wheedling  tones,  "  Would 
massa  be  so  good  as  gib  a  pass  to  go  to  Methodist 
meeting?" 

Mr.  Duncan  was  a  proverbially  indulgent  master  ; 
and  he  at  once  replied,  "  Yes,  Jack,  you  may  have  a 
pass ;  but  you  must  mind  and  not  stay  out  all  night." 

"  Oh,  no,  massa.  Tom  neber  preach  more  than 
two  hours." 

Scarcely  was  the  pass  written,  before  another  ser 
vant  appeared  with  a  similar  request ;  and  presently 
another ;  and  yet  another.  When  these  interruptions 


192  THE    BLACK   SAXONS. 

ceased,  Mr.  Duncan  resumed  his  book,  and  quietly 
read  of  the  oppressed  Saxons,  until  the  wish  for  a  glass 
of  water  induced  him  to  ring  the  bell.  No  servant 
obeyed  the  summons.  With  an  impatient  jerk  of  the 
rope,  he  rang  a  second  time,  muttering  to  himself, 
"  What  a  curse  it  is  to  be  waited  upon  by  slaves  !  If 
I  were  dying,  the  lazy  loons  would  take  their  own 
time,  and  come  dragging  their  heavy  heels  along,  an 
hour  after  I  was  in  the  world  of  spirits.  My  neigh 
bours  tell  me  it  is  because  I  never  flog  them.  I  be 
lieve  they  are  in  the  right.  It  is  a  hard  case,  too,  to 
force  a  man  to  be  a  tyrant,  whether  he  will  or  no." 

A  third  time  he  rang  the  bell  more  loudly;  but 
waited  in  vain  for  the  sound  of  coming  footsteps. 
Then  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  given  every  one 
of  his  slaves  a  pass  to  go  to  the  Methodist  meeting. 
This  was  instantly  followed  by  the  remembrance,  that 
the  same  thing  had  happened  a  few  days  before. 

We  were  then  at  war  with  Great  Britain ;  and 
though  Mr.  Duncan  often  boasted  the  attachment  of 
his  slaves,  and  declared  them  to  be  the  most  content 
ed  and  happy  labourers  in  the  world,  who  would  not 
take  their  freedom  if  they  could,  yet,  by  some  coinci 
dence  of  thought,  the  frequency  of  Methodist  meetings 
immediately  suggested  the  common  report  that  Brit 
ish  troops  were  near  the  coast,  and  about  to  land  in 
Charleston.  Simultaneously  came  the  remembrance 
of  Big-boned  Dick,  who  many  months  before  had  ab 
sconded  from  a  neighbouring  planter,  and  was  sus 
pected  of  holding  a  rendezvous  for  runaways,  in  the 
swampy  depths  of  some  dark  forest.  The  existence 


THE    BLACK    SAXONS.  193 

of  such  a  gang  was  indicated  by  the  rapid  disappear 
ance  of  young  corn,  sweet  potatoes,  fat  hogs,  &c., 
from  the  plantations  for  many  miles  round. 

"  The  black  rascal !"  exclaimed  he  :  "  If  my  boys 
are  in  league  with  him  " — 

The  coming  threat  was  arrested  by  a  voice  within, 
which,  like  a  chorus  from  some  invisible  choir,  all  at 
once  struck  up  the  lively  ballad  of  Robin  Hood ;  and 
thus  brought  Big-boned  Dick,  like  Banquo's  Ghost, 
unbidden  and  unwelcome,  into  incongruous  associa 
tion  with  his  spontaneous  sympathy  for  Saxon  serfs, 
his  contempt  of  "  base  Saxon  churls,"  who  tamely 
submitted  to  their  fate,  and  his  admiration  of  the  bold 
outlaws,  who  lived  by  plunder  in  the  wild  freedom  of 
Saxon  forests. 

His  republican  sympathies,  and  the  "  system  en 
tailed  upon  him  by  his  ancestors,"  were  obviously  out 
of  joint  with  each  other;  and  the  skilfullest  soldering 
of  casuistry  could  by  no  means  make  them  adhere  to 
gether.  Clear  as  the  tones  of  a  cathedral  bell  above 
the  hacks  and  drays  of  a  city,  the  voice  of  Reason 
rose  above  all  the  pretexts  of  selfishness,  and  the  apol 
ogies  of  sophistry,  and  loudly  proclaimed  that  his  sym 
pathies  were  right,  and  his  practice  wrong.  Had 
there  been  at  his  elbow  some  honest  John  Woolman, 
or  fearless  Elias  Hicks,  that  hour  might  perhaps  have 
seen  him  a  freeman,  in  giving  freedom  to  his  serfs. 
But  he  was  alone  ;  and  the  prejudices  of  education, 
and  the  habits  of  his  whole  life,  conjured  up  a  fearful 
array  of  lions  in  his  path ;  and  he  wist  not  that  they 
were  phantoms.  The  admonitions  of  awakened  con 
science  gradually  gave  place  to  considerations  of  per- 
17 


194  THE    BLACK    SAXONS. 

sonal  safety,  and  plans  for  ascertaining  the  real  extent 
of  his  danger. 

The  next  morning  he  asked  his  slaves,  with  assum 
ed  nonchalance,  whether  they  had  a  good  meeting. 

"  Oh,  yes,  massa;  bery  good  meeting." 

"  Where  did  you  meet  ?" 

"  In  the  woods  behind  Birch  Grove,  massa." 

The  newspaper  was  brought,  and  found  to  contain 
a  renewal  of  the  report  that  British  troops  were  prowl 
ing  about  the  coast.  Mr.  Duncan  slowly  paced  the 
room  for  some  time,  apparently  studying  the  figures 
of  the  carpet,  yet  utterly  unconscious  whether  he  trod 
on  canvass  or  the  greensward.  At  length,  he  ordered 
his  horse  and  drove  to  the  next  plantation.  Seeing  a 
gang  at  work  in  the  fields,  he  stopped  ;  and  after  some 
questions  concerning  the  crop,  he  said  to  one  of  the 
most  intelligent,  "  So  you  had  a  fine  meeting  last 
night?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  massa,  bery  nice  meeting." 

"  Where  was  it  ? 

The  slave  pointed  far  east  of  Birch  Grove.  The 
white  man's  eye  followed  the  direction  of  the  bond 
man's  finger,  and  a  deeper  cloud  gathered  on  his 
brow.  Without  comment  he  rode  on  in  another  di 
rection,  and  with  apparent  indifference  made  similar 
inquiries  of  another  gang  of  labourers.  They  pointed 
north  of  Birch  Grove,  and  replied,  "  In  the  Hugonot 
woods,  massa." 

With  increasing  disquietude,  he  slowly  turned  his 
horse  toward  the  city.  He  endeavoured  to  conceal 
anxiety  under  a  cheerful  brow ;  for  he  was  afraid  to 
ask  counsel,  even  of  his  most  familiar  friends,  in  a 


THE    BLACK    SAXONS.  195 

community  so  prone  to  be  blinded  by  insane  fury  un 
der  the  excitement  of  such  suspicions.  Having  pur 
chased  a  complete  suit  of  negro  clothes,  and  a  black 
mask  well  fitted  to  his  face,  he  returned  home,  and 
awaited  the  next  request  for  passes  to  a  Methodist 
meeting. 

In  a  few  days,  the  sable  faces  again  appeared  before 
him,  one  after  another,  asking  permission  to  hear  Tom 
preach.  The  passes  were  promptly  given,  accom 
panied  by  the  cool  observation,  "  It  seems  to  me,  boys, 
that  you  are  all  growing  wonderfully  religious  of 
late." 

To  which  they  eagerly  replied,  "  Ah,  if  massa  could 
hear  Tom  preach,  it  make  his  hair  stand  up.  Tom 
make  ebery  body  tink  weder  he  hab  a  soul." 

When  the  last  one  had  departed,  the  master  hastily 
assumed  his  disguise,  and  hurried  after  them.  Keep 
ing  them  within  sight,  he  followed  over  field  and  mea 
dow,  through  woods  and  swamps.  As  he  went  on, 
the  number  of  dark  figures,  all  tending  toward  the 
same  point,  continually  increased.  Now  and  then, 
some  one  spoke  to  him ;  but  he  answered  briefly,  and 
with  an  effort  to  disguise  his  voice.  At  last,  they  ar 
rived  at  one  of  those  swamp  islands,  so  common  at 
the  South,  insulated  by  a  broad,  deep  belt  of  water, 
and  effectually  screened  from  the  main-land  by  a  lux 
uriant  growth  of  forest  trees,  matted  together  by  a  rich 
entanglement  of  vines  and  underwood.  A  large  tree 
had  been  felled  for  a  bridge ;  and  over  this  dusky 
forms  were  swarming,  like  ants  into  their  new-made 
nest. 

Mr.  Duncan  had  a  large  share  of  that  animal  in- 


196  THE    BLACK    SAXONS. 

stinct  called  physical  courage ;  but  his  heart  throbbed 
almost  audibly,  as  he  followed  that  dark  multitude. 

At  the  end  of  a  rough  and  intricate  passage,  there 
opened  before  him  a  scene  of  picturesque  and  impo 
sing  grandeur.  .A  level  space,  like  a  vast  saloon,  was 
enclosed  by  majestic  trees,  uniting  their  boughs  over 
it,  in  fantastic  resemblance  to  some  Gothic  cathedral. 
Spanish  moss  formed  a  thick  matted  roof,  and  floated 
in  funereal  streamers.  From  the  points  of  arches 
hung  wild  vines  in  luxuriant  profusion,  some  in  heavy 
festoons,  others  lightly  and  gracefully  leaping  upward. 
The  blaze  of  pine  torches  threw  some  into  bold  relief, 
and  cast  others  into  a  shadowy  background.  And 
here,  in  this  lone  sanctuary  of  Nature,  were  assem 
bled  many  hundreds  of  swart  figures,  some  seated  in 
thoughtful  attitudes,  others  scattered  in  moving  groups, 
eagerly  talking  together.  As  they  glanced  about, 
now  sinking  into  dense  shadow,  and  now  emerging 
into  lurid  light,  they  seemed  to  the  slaveholder's  ex 
cited  imagination  like  demons  from  the  pit,  come  to 
claim  guilty  souls.  He  had,  however,  sufficient  pres 
ence  of  mind  to  observe  that  each  one,  as  he  entered, 
prostrated  himself,  till  his  forehead  touched  the  ground, 
and  rising,  placed  his  ringer  on  his  mouth.  Imitating 
this  signal,  he  passed  in  with  the  throng,  and  seated 
himself  behind  the  glare  of  the  torches.  For  some 
time,  he  could  make  out  no  connected  meaning  amid 
the  confused  buzz  of  voices,  and  half-suppressed 
snatches  of  songs.  But,  at  last,  a  tall  man  mounted 
the  stump  of  a  decayed  tree,  nearly  in  the  centre  ot 
the  area,  and  requested  silence. 

"  When  we  had  our  last  meeting,"  said  he,  "  I  sup- 


THE    BLACK    SAXONS.  197 

pose  most  all  of  you  know,  that  we  all  concluded  it 
was  best  for  to  join  the  British,  if  so  be  we  could  get 
a  good  chance.  But  we  didn't  all  agree  about  our 
masters.  Some  thought  we  should  never  be  able  to 
keep  our  freedom,  without  we  killed  our  masters,  in 
the  first  place  ;  others  didn't  like  the  thoughts  of  that ; 
so  we  agreed  to  have  another  meeting  to  talk  about 
it.  And  now,  boys,  if  the  British  land  here  in  Caro- 
liny,  what  shall  we  do  with  our  masters  ?" 

He  sat  down,  and  a  tall,  sinewy  mulatto  stepped  into 
his  place,  exclaiming,  with  fierce  gestures,  "  Ravish 
wives  and  daughters  before  their  eyes,  as  they  have 
done  to  us  !  Hunt  them  with  hounds,  as  they  have 
hunted  us !  Shoot  them  down  with  rifles,  as  they 
have  shot  us  !  Throw  their  carcasses  to  the  crows, 
they  have  fattened  on  our  bones  ;  and  then  let  the 
Devil  take  them  where  they  never  rake  up  fire  o' 
nights.  Who  talks  of  mercy  to  our  masters  ?" 

"  I  do,"  said  an  aged  black  man,  who  rose  up  before 
the  fiery  youth,  tottering  as  he  leaned  both  hands  on 
an  oaken  staff".  "  I  do ; — because  the  blessed  Jesus 
always  talked  of  mercy.  I  know  we  have  been  fed 
like  hogs,  and  shot  at  like  wild  beasts.  Myself  found 
the  body  of  my  likeliest  boy  under  the  tree  where 
buckra*  rifles  reached  him.  But  thanks  to  the 
blessed  Jesus,  I  feel  it  in  my  poor  old  heart  to  forgive 
them.  I  have  been  member  of  a  Methodist  church 
these  thirty  years  ;  and  I've  heard  many  preachers, 
white  and  black ;  and  they  all  tell  me  Jesus  said,  Do 
good  to  them  that  do  evil  to  you,  and  pray  for  them 
that  spite  you.  Now  I  say,  let  us  love  our  enemies ; 

*  Buckra  is  the  negro  term  for  white  man. 

17* 


198  THE    BLACK    SAXONS. 

let  us  pray  for  them  ;  and  when  our  masters  flog  us, 
and  sell  our  piccaninnies,  let  us  break  out  singing : 

"  You  may  beat  upon  my  body, 
But  you  cannot  harm  my  soul; 
I  shall  join  the  forty  thousand  by  and  by. 

"You  may  sell  my  children  to  Georgy, 

But  you  cannot  harm  their  soul; 

They  will  join  the  fjrty  thousand  by  and  bye. 

"  Come,  slave-trader,  come  in  too ; 

The  Lord  's  got  a  pardon  here  for  you ; 

You  shall  join  the  forty  thousand  by  and  bye. 

"Co-ne,  poor  nigger,  come  in  too; 

The  Lord  's  got  a  pardon  here  for  you ; 

You  shall  join  the  f^rty  thousand  by  and  bye. 

"  My  skin  is  black,  but  my  soul  is  white ; 
And  when  we  get  to  Heaven  we  '11  all  be  alike; 
We  shall  join  the  forty  thousand  by  and  bye. 

That's  the  way  to  glorify  the  Lord." 

Scarcely  had  the  cracked  voice  ceased  the  tremu 
lous  chant  in  which  these  words  were  uttered,  when 
a  loud  altercation  commenced ;  some  crying  out  ve 
hemently  for  the  blood  of  the  white  men,  others  main 
taining  that  the  old  man's  doctrine  was  right.  The 
aged  black  remained  leaning  on  his  staff,  and  mildly 
replied  to  every  outburst  of  fury,  "  But  Jesus  said,  do 
good  for  evil."  Loud  rose  the  din  of  excited  voices  ; 
and  the  disguised  slaveholder  shrank  deeper  into  the 
shadow. 

In  the  midst  of  the  confusion,  an  athletic,  gracefully- 
proportioned  young  man  sprang  upon  the  stump,  and 
throwing  off  his  coarse  cotton  garments,  slowly  turned 
round  and  round,  before  the  assembled  multitude. 


THE    BLACK    SAXOKS.  199 

Immediately  all  was  hushed ;  for  the  light  of  a  dozen 
torches,  eagerly  held  up  by  fierce  revengeful  comrades, 
showed  his  back  and  shoulders  deeply  gashed  by  the 
whip,  and  still  oozing  with  blood.  In  the  midst  of 
that  deep  silence,  he  stopped  abruptly,  anJ  with  stern 
brevity  exclaimed,  "  Boys  !  shall  we  not  murder  our 
masters  ?" 

"  Would  you  murder  all  ?"  inquired  a  timid  voice  at 
his  right  hand.  "  They  don't  all  cruellize  their 
slaves." 

"  There's  Mr.  Campbell,"  pleaded  another ;  "  he 
never  had  one  of  his  boys  flogged  in  his  life.  You 
wouldn't  murder  him,  would  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no,"  shouted  many  voices ;  "  we 
wouldn't  murder  Mr.  Campbell.  He's  always  good 
to  coloured  folks." 

"  And  I  wouldn't  murder  my  master,"  said  one  of 
Mr.  Duncan's  slaves  ;  "  and  I'd  fight  anybody  that 
set  out  to  murder  him.  I  an't  a  going  to  work  for 
him  for  nothing  any  longer,  if  I  can  help  it;  but  he 
shan't  be  murdered ;  for  he's  a  good  master." 

"  Call  him  a  good  master,  if  ye  like  !"  said  the 
bleeding  youth,  with  a  bitter  sneer  in  his  look  and 
tone.  "  I  curse  the  word.  The  white  men  tell  us 
God  made  them  our  masters  ;  I  say  it  was  the  Devil. 
When  they  don't  cut  up  the  backs  that  bear  their  bur 
dens  ;  when  they  throw  us  enough  of  the  grain  we 
have  raised,  to  keep  us  strong  for  another  harvest ; 
when  they  forbear  to  shoot  the  limbs,  that  toil  to  make 
them  rich  ;  there  are  fools  who  call  them  good  mas 
ters.  Why  should  they  sleep  on  soft  beds,  under 
silken  curtains,  while  we,  whose  labour  bought  it  all, 


200  THE    BLACK    SAXONS. 

lie  on  the  floor  at  the  threshold,  or  miserably  coiled  up 
in  the  dirt  of  our  own  cabins  ?  Why  should  I  clothe 
my  master  in  broadcloth  and  fine  linen,  when  he 
knows,  and  I  know,  that  he  is  my  own  brother  ?  arid 
I,  meanwhile,  have  only  this  coarse  rag  to  cover  my 
aching  shoulders  ?"  He  kicked  the  garment  scorn 
fully,  and  added,  "  Down  on  your  knees,  if  ye  like, 
and  thank  them  that  ye  are  not  flogged  and  shot. 
Of  me  they'll  learn  another  lesson  !" 

Mr.  Duncan  recognised  in  the  speaker,  the  reputed 
son  of  one  of  his  friends,  lately  deceased  ;  one  of  that 
numerous  class,  which  southern  vice  is  thoughtlessly 
raising  up,  to  be  its  future  scourge  and  terror. 

The  high,  bold  forehead,  and  flashing  eye,  indicated 
an  intellect  too  active  and  daring  for  servitude  ;  while 
his  fluent  speech  and  appropriate  language  betrayed 
the  fact  that  his  highly  educated  parent,  from  some 
remains  of  instinctive  feeling,  had  kept  him  near  his 
own  person,  during  his  lifetime,  and  thus  formed 
his  conversation  on  another  model  than  the  rude  jar 
gon  of  slaves. 

His  poor,  ignorant  listeners  stood  spell-bound  by  the 
magic  of  superior  mind ;  and  at  first  it  seemed  as  if 
he  might  carry  the  whole  meeting  in  favour  of  his 
views.  But  the  aged  man,  leaning  on  his  oaken  staff", 
still  mildly  spoke  of  the  meek  and  blessed  Jesus  ; 
and  the  docility  of  African  temperament  responded 
to  his  gentle  words. 

Then  rose  a  man  of  middle  age,  short  of  stature, 
with  a  quick  roguish  eye,  and  a  spirit  of  knowing 
drollery  lurking  about  his  mouth.  Rubbing  his  head 
in  uncouth  fashion,  he  began  :  "  I  don't  know  how  to 


THE    BLACK    SAXONS.  201 

speak  like  Bob  ;  for  I  never  had  no  chance.  He  says 
the  Devil  made  white  men  our  masters.  Now  dat's 
a  ting  I've  thought  on  a  heap.  Many  a  time  I've 
axed  myself  how  pon  arth  it  was,  that  jist  as  sure  as 
white  man  and  black  man  come  togeder,  de  white 
man  sure  to  git  he  foot  on  de  black  man.  Sometimes 
I  link  one  ting,  den  I  link  anoder  ting ;  and  dey  all 
be  jumbled  up  in  my  head,  jest  like  seed  in  de  cotton, 
afore  he  put  in  de  gin.  At  last,  I  find  it  all  out. 
White  man  always  git  he  foot  on  de  black  man ;  no 
mistake  in  dot.  But  how  he  do  it  ?  I'll  show  you 
how !" 

Thrusting  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  he  took  out  a 
crumpled  piece  of  printed  paper,  and  smoothing  it 
carefully  on  the  paim  of  his  hand,  he  struck  it  signifi 
cantly  with  his  finger,  and  exclaimed  triumphantly, 
"  Dat's  de  way  dey  do  it  !  Dey  got  de  know 
ledge  !  Now,  it'll  do  no  more  good  to  rise  agin  our 
masters,  dan  put  de  head  in  de  fire  and  pull  him  out 
agin ;  and  may  be  you  can't  pull  him  out  agin. 
When  I  was  a  boy,  I  hear  an  old  conjuring  woman 
say  she  could  conjure  de  Divil  out  of  anybody.  I  ask 
her  why  she  don't  conjure  her  massa,  den  ;  and  she 
tell  me,  '  Oh,  nigger  neber  conjure  buckra — can't  do't.' 
But  I  say  nigger  can  conjure  buckra.  How  he  doit? 
Get  de  knowledge !  Dat  de  way.  We  make  de 
sleeve  wide,  and  fill  full  of  de  tea  and  de  sugar,  ebery 
time  we  get  in  missis'  closet.  If  we  take  half  so  much 
pains  to  get  de  knowledge,  de  white  man  take  he  foot 
off  de  black  man.  Maybe  de  British  land,  and  maybe 
de  British  no  land  ;  but  tell  you  sons  to  marry  de  free 
woman,  dat  know  how  to  read  and  write  j  and  tell 


202  THT     BLACK    SAXONS. 

you  gals  to  marry  de  free  man,  dat  know  how  to  read 
and  write ;  and  den,  by'm  bye,  you  be  de  British 
yourselves  !  You  want-  to  know  how  I  manage  to  get 
de  knowledge  ?  I  tell  you.  I  want  right  bad  to 
larn  to  read.  My  old  boss  is  the  most  begrudgfullest 
massa,  and  I  know  he  won't  let  me  larn.  So,  when 
I  see  leetle  massa  wid  he  book,  (he  about  six  year 
old,)  I  say  to  him,  What  you  call  dat  ?  He  tell  me 
dat  is  A.  Oh,  dat  is  A !  So  I  take  old  newspaper, 
and  I  ax  missis,  may  I  hab  dis  to  rub  my  brasses  ?  She 
say  yes.  I  put  it  in  my  pocket,  and  by'm  by,  I  look  to 
see  I  find  A ;  and  I  look  at  him  till  I  know  him  bery 
well.  Den  I  ask  my  young  massa,  What  you  call 
dat  ?  He  say,  dat  is  B.  Sol  find  him  on  my  paper, 
and  look  at  him,  till  I  know  him  bery  well.  Den  I  ask 
my  young  massa  what  CAT  spell  ?  He  tell  me 
cat.  Den,  after  great  long  time,  I  can  read  de  news 
paper.  And  what  you  tink  I  find  dere  ?  I  read 
British  going  to  land  !  Den  I  tell  all  de  boys  British 
going  to  land  ;  and  I  say  what  you  do,  s'pose  British 
land  ?  When  I  stand  behind  massa's  chair,  I  hear 
him  talk,  and  I  tell  all  de  boys  what  he  say.  Den 
Bob  say  must  hab  Methodist  meeting,  and  tell  massa, 
Tom  going  to  preach  in  de  woods.  But  what  you 
tink  I  did  toder  day  ?  You  know  Jim,  massa  Gu- 
bernor's  boy  ?  Well,  I  want  mighty  bad  to  let  Jim 
know  British  going  to  land.  But  he  lib  ten  mile  off, 
and  old  boss  no  let  me  go.  Well,  massa  Gubernor 
he  come  dine  my  massa's  house ;  and  I  bring  he 
horse  to  de  gate  ;  and  I  make  my  bow,  and  say, 
massa  Gubernor,  how  Jim  do  ?  He  tell  me  Jim  bery 
well.  Den  I  ax  him,  be  Jim  good  boy  ?  He  say 


THE    BLACK    SAXONS. 

yes.  Den  I  tell  him  Jirn  and  I  leetle  boy  togeder ; 
and  I  want  mighty  bad  send  Jim  someting.  He  tell 
me  Jim  hab  enough  of  ebery  ting.  Oh,  yes,  massa 
Gubernor,  I  know  you  bery  good  massa,  and  Jim  hab 
ebery  ting  he  want ;  but  when  leetle  boy  togeder, 
dere  is  always  someting  here  (laying  his  hand  on  his 
heart).  I  want  to  send  a  leetle  backy  to  Jim.  I  know 
he  hab  much  backy  he  want ;  but  Jim  and  I  leetle 
boy  togeder,  and  I  want  to  send  Jim  someting.  Mas 
sa  Gubernor  say,  bery  well,  Jack.  So  I  gib  him  de 
backy,  done  up  in  de  bery  bit  o'  newspaper  dat  tell 
British  going  to  land  !  And  massa  Gubernor  himself 
carry  it !  And  massa  Gubernor  himself  cany  it  !  !" 

He  clapped  his  hands,  kicked  up  his  heels,  and 
turned  somersets  like  a  harlequin.  These  demonstra 
tions  were  received  with  loud  shouts  of  merriment ; 
and  it  was  sometime  before  sufficient  order  was  re 
stored  to  proceed  with  the  question  under  discussion. 

After  various  scenes  of  fiery  indignation,  gentle 
expostulation,  and  boisterous  mirth,  it  was  finally  de 
cided,  by  a  considerable  majority,  that  in  case  the 
British  landed,  they  would  take  their  freedom  without 
murdering  their  masters  ;  not  a  few,  however,  went 
away  in  wrathful  mood,  muttering  curses  deep. 

With  thankfulness  to  Heaven,  Mr.  Duncan  again 
found  himself  in  the  open  field,  alone  with  the  stars. 
Their  glorious  beauty  seemed  to  him,  that  night, 
clothed  in  new  and  awful  power.  Groups  of  shrub 
bery  took  to  themselves  startling  forms  ;  and  the  sound 
of  the  wind  among  the  trees  was  like  the  unsheathing 
of  swords.  Again  he  recurred  to  Saxon  history,  and 
remembered  how  he  had  thought  that  troubled  must 


204  THE    BLACK    SAXONS. 

be  the  sleep  of  those  who  rule  a  conquered  people. 
A  new  significance  seemed  given  to  Wat  Tyler's  ad 
dress  to  the  insurgent  labourers  of  his  day  ;  an  empha 
tic,  and  most  unwelcome  application  of  his  indignant 
question  why  serfs  should*  toil  unpaid,  in  wind  and 
sun,  that  lords  might  sleep  on  down,  and  embroider 
their  garments  with  pearl. 

"And  these  Robin  Hoods,  and  Wat  Tylers,  were 
my  Saxon  ancestors,"  thought  he.  "  Who  shall  so 
balance  effects  and  causes,  as  to  decide  what  portion 
of  my  present  freedom  sprung  from  their  seemingly 
defeated  efforts  ?  Was  the  place  I  saw  to-night,  in 
such  wild  and  fearful  beauty,  like  the  haunts  of  the 
Saxon  Robin  Hoods  ?  Was  not  the  spirit  that  gleamed 
forth  as  brave  as  theirs  ?  And  who  shall  calculate  what 
even  such  hopeless  endeavours  may  do.  for  the  future 
freedom  of  this  down-trodden  race  ?" 

These  cogitations  did  not,  so  far  as  I  ever  heard, 
lead  to  the  emancipation  of  his  bondmen ;  but  they  did 
prevent  his  revealing  a  secret,  which  would  have 
brought  hundreds  to  an  immediate  and  violent  death. 
After  a  painful  conflict  between  contending  feelings 
and  duties,  he  contented  himself  with  advising  the 
magistrates  to  forbid  all  meetings  whatsoever  among 
the  coloured  people  until  the  war  was  ended. 

He  visited  Boston  several  years  after,  and  told  the 
story  to  a  gentleman,  who  often  repeated  it  in  the 
circle  of  his  friends.  In  brief  outline  it  reached  my 
ears.  I  have  told  it  truly,  with  some  filling  up  by 
imagination,  some  additional  garniture  of  language, 
and  the  adoption  of  fictitious  names,  because  I  have 
forgotten  the  real  ones. 


HILDA  SILFVERLING. 

A  Fantasy. 

"  Thon  hast  nor  youth  nor  age ; 
But,  as  it  were,  an  after  dinner's  sleep, 
Dreaming  on  both." — MEASCKB  FOB  MEASURE. 

HILDA  GYLLENLOF  was  the  daughter  of  a  poor  Swe 
dish  clergyman.  Her  mother  died  before  she  had 
counted  five  summers.  The  good  father  did  his  best 
to  supply  the  loss  of  maternal  tenderness ;  nor  were 
kind  neighbors  wanting,  with  friendly  words,  and 
many  a  small  gift  for  the  pretty  little  one.  But  at  the 
age  of  thirteen,  Hilda  lost  her  father  also,  just  as  she 
was  receiving  rapidly  from  his  affectionate  teachings 
as  much  culture  as  his  own  education  and  means 
afforded.  The  unfortunate  girl  had  no  other  resource 
than  to  go  to  distant  relatives,  who  were  poor,  and 
could  not  well  conceal  that  the  destitute  orphan  was  a 
burden.  At  the  end  of  a  year,  Hilda,  in  sadness  and 
weariness  of  spirit,  went  to  Stockholm,  to  avail  her 
self  of  an  opportunity  to  earn  her  living  by  her  needle, 
and  some  light  services  about  the  house. 

She  was  then  in  the  first  blush  of  maidenhood,  with 

a  clear  innocent  look,  and  exceedingly  fair  complexion. 

Her  beauty  soon  attracted  the  attention  of  Magnus 

Andersen,  mate  of  a  Danish  vessel  then  lying  at  the 

18 


206  HILDA    SILFVERLING. 

wharves  of  Stockholm.  He  could  not  be  otherwise 
than  fascinated  with  her  budding  loveliness  ;  and  alone 
as  she  was  in  the  world,  she  was  naturally  prone  to 
listen  to  the  first  words  of  warm  affection  she  had 
heard  since  her  father's  death.  What  followed  is  the 
old  story,  which  will  continue  to  be  tola  es  long  as 
there  are  human  passions  and  human  laws.  To  do  the 
young  man  justice,  though  selfish,  he  was  not  delibe 
rately  unkind ;  for  he  did  not  mean  to  be  treacherous 
to  the  friendless  young  creature  who  trusted  him. 
He  sailed  from  Sweden  with  the  honest  intention  to 
return  and  make  her  his  wife ;  but  he  was  lost  in  a 
storm  at  sea,  and  the  earth  saw  him  no  more. 

Hilda  never  heard  the  sad  tidings ;  but,  for  another 
cause,  her  heart  was  soon  oppressed  with  shame  and 
sorrow.  If  she  had  had  a  mother's  bosom  on  which 
to  lean  her  aching  head,  and  confess  all  her  faults  and 
all  her  grief,  much  misery  might  have  been  saved. 
But  there  was  none  to  whom  she  dared  to  speak  of 
her  anxiety  and  shame.  Her  extreme  melancholy 
attracted  the  attention  of  a  poor  old  woman,  to  whom 
she  sometimes  carried  clothes  for  washing.  The  good 
Virika,  after  manifesting  her  sympathy  in  various 
ways,  at  last  ventured  to  ask  outright  why  one  so 
young  was  so  very  sad.  The  poor  child  threw  her 
self  on  the  friendly  bosom,  and  confessed  all  her 
wretchedness.  After  that,  they  had  frequent  confi 
dential  conversations  ;  and  the  kind-hearted  peasant 
did  her  utmost  to  console  and  cheer  the  desolate  or 
phan.  She  said  she  must  soon  return  to  her  native 
village  in  the  Norwegian  valley  of  Westfjordalen  ;  and 
as  she  was  alone  in  the  world,  and  wanted  some- 


HILDA    SILFVERLING.  207 

thing  to  love,  she  would  gladly  take  the  babe,  and 
adopt  it  for  her  own. 

Poor  Hilda,  thankful  for  any  chance  to  keep  her 
disgrace  a  secret,  gratefully  accepted  the  offer.  When 
the  babe  was  ten  days  old,  she  allowed  the  good  Viri- 
ka  to  carry  it  away ;  though  not  without  bitter  tears, 
and  the  oft-repeated  promise  that  her  little  one  might 
be  reclaimed,  whenever  Magnus  returned  and  fulfilled 
his  promise  of  marriage. 

But  though  these  arrangements  were  managed 
with  great  caution,  the  young  mother  did  not  escape 
suspicion.  It  chanced,  very  unfortunately,  that  soon 
after  Virika's  departure,  an  infant  was  found  in  the 
water,  strangled  with  a  sash  very  like  one  Hilda  had 
been  accustomed  to  wear.  A  train  of  circumstantial 
evidence  seemed  to  connect  the  child  with  her,  and 
she  was  arrested.  For  some  time,  she  contented  her 
self  with  assertions  of  innocence,  and  obstinately  refu 
sed  to  tell  anything  more.  But  at  last,  having  the 
fear  of  death  before  her  eyes,  she  acknowledged  that 
she  had  given  birth  to  a  daughter,  which  had  been 
carried  away  by  Virika  Gjetter,  to  her  native  place,  in 
the  parish  of  Tind,  in  the  Valley  of  Westfjordalen. 
Inquiries  were  accordingly  made  in  Norway,  but  the 
answer  obtained  was  that  Virika  had  not  been  heard 
of  in  her  native  valley,  for  many  years.  Through 
weary  months,  Hilda  lingered  in  prison,  waiting  in 
vain  for  favourable  testimony  ;  and  at  last,  on  strong 
circumstantial  evidence,  she  was  condemned  to  die. 
It  chanced  there  was  at  that  time  a  very  learned 
chemist  in  Stockholm ;  a  man  whose  thoughts  were 
all  gas,  and  his  hours  marked  only  by  combinations 


208  HILDA   SILFVERLING. 

and  explosions.  He  had  discovered  a  process  of  arti 
ficial  cold,  by  which  he  could  suspend  animation  in 
living  creatures,  and  restore  it  at  any  prescribed  time. 
He  had  in  one  apartment  of  his  laboratory  a  bear  that 
had  been  in  a  torpid  state  five  years,  a  wolf  two  years, 
and  so  on.  This  of  course  excited  a  good  deal  of 
attention  in  the  scientific  world.  A  metaphysician 
suggested  how  extremely  interesting  it  would  be  to 
put  a  human  being  asleep  thus,  and  watch  the  reunion 
of  soul  and  body,  after  the  lapse  of  a  hundred  years. 
The  chemist  was  half  wild  with  the  magnificence  of 
this  idea ;  and  he  forthwith  petitioned  that  Hilda,  in 
stead  of  being  beheaded,  might  be  delivered  to  him, 
to  be  frozen  for  a  century.  He  urged  that  her  ex 
treme  youth  demanded  pity ;  that  his  mode  of  execu 
tion  would  be  a  very  gentle  one,  and,  being  so  strictly 
private,  would  be  far  less  painful  to  the  poor  young 
creature  than  exposure  to  the  public  gaze. 

His  request,  being  seconded  by  several  men  of 
science,  was  granted  by  the  government ;  for  no  one 
suggested  a  doubt  of  its  divine  right  to  freeze  human 
hearts,  instead  of  chopping  off  human  heads,  or  cho 
king  human  lungs.  This  change  in  the  mode  of 
death  was  much  lauded  as  an  act  of  clemency,  and 
poor  Hilda  tried  to  be  as  grateful  as  she  was  told  she 
ought  to  be. 

On  the  day  of  execution,  the  chaplain  came  to  pray 
with  her,  but  found  himself  rather  embarrassed  in 
using  the  customary  form.  He  could  not  well  allude 
to  her  going  in  a  few  hours  to  meet  her  final  judge  ; 
for  the  chemist  said  she  would  come  back  in  a  hun 
dred  years,  and  where  her  soul  would  be  meantime 


HILDA    SILFVERLING.  209 

was  more  than  theology  could  teach.  Under  these 
novel  circumstances,  the  old  nursery  prayer  seemed 
to  be  the  only  appropriate  one  for  her  to  repeat : 

"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep : 
If  I  should  die  befure  1  wake, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  take." 

The  subject  of  this  curious  experiment  was  convey 
ed  in  a  close  carriage  from  the  prison  to  the  laborato 
ry.  A  shudder  ran  through  soul  and  body,  as  she 
entered  the  apartment  assigned  her.  It  was  built  en 
tirely  of  stone,  and  rendered  intensely  cold  by  an  arti 
ficial  process.  The  light  was  dim  and  spectral,  being 
admitted  from  above  through  a  small  circle  of  blue 
glass.  Around  the  sides  of  the  room,  were  tiers  of 
massive  stone  shelves,  on  which  reposed  various  ob 
jects  in  a  torpid  state.  A  huge  bear  lay  on  his  back, 
with  paws  crossed  on  his  breast,  as  devoutly  as  some 
pious  knight  of  the  fourteenth  century.  There  was 
in  fact  no  inconsiderable  resemblance  in  the  proceed 
ings  by  which  both  these  characters  gained  their 
worldly  possessions  ;  they  were  equally  based  on  the 
maxim  that  "might  makes  right."  It  is  true,  the 
Christian  obtained  a  better  name,  inasmuch  as  he  paid 
a  tithe  of  his  gettings  to  the  holy  church,  which  the 
bear  never  had  the  grace  to  do.  But  then  it  must  be 
remembered  that  the  bear  had  no  soul  to  save,  and  the 
Christian  knight  would  have  been  very  unlikely  to 
pay  fees  to  the  ferryman,  if  he  likewise  had  had  noth 
ing  to  send  over. 

The  two  public  functionaries,  who  had  attended  the 
prisoner,  to  make  sure  that  justice  was  not  defrauded 
18* 


210  HILDA    SILFVERLING. 

of  its  due,  soon  begged  leave  to  retire,  complaining  of 
the  unearthly  cold.  The  pale  face  of  the  maiden  be 
came  still  paler,  as  she  saw  them  depart.  She  seized 
the  arm  of  the  old  chemist,  and  said,  imploringly, 
"  You  will  not  go  away,  too,  and  leave  me  with  these 
dreadful  creatures  ?" 

He  replied,  not  without  some  touch  of  compassion 
in  his  tones,  "  You  will  be  sound  asleep,  my  dear, 
and  will  not  know  whether  I  am  here  or  not.  Drink 
this ;  it  will  soon  make  you  drowsy." 

"  But  what  if  that  great  bear  should  wake  up  ?" 
asked  she,  trembling. 

"  Never  fear.  He  cannot  wake  up,"  was  the  brief 
reply. 

"  And  what  if  I  should  wake  up,  all  alone  here  ?" 

"  Don't  disturb  yourself,"  said  he,  "  I  tell  you  that 
you  will  not  wake  up.  Come,  my  dear,  drink  quick ; 
for  I  am  getting  chilly  myself." 

The  poor  girl  cast  another  despairing  glance  round 
the  tomb-like  apartment,  and  did  as  she  was  request 
ed.  "  And  now,"  said  the  chemist,  "  let  us  shake 
hands,  and  say  farewell;  for  you  will  never  see  me 
again." 

"  Why,  wont  you  come  to  wake  me  up  ?"  inquired 
the  prisoner ;  not  reflecting  on  all  the  peculiar  circum 
stances  of  her  condition. 

"  My  great-grandson  may,"  replied  he,  with  a  smile. 
"  Adieu,  my  dear.  It  is  a  great  deal  pleasanter  than 
being  beheaded.  You  will  fall  asleep  as  easily  as  a 
babe  in  his  cradle." 

She  gazed  in  his  face,  with  a  bewildered  drowsy 
look,  and  big  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  "  Just 


HILDA    SILFVERLING.  211 

step  up  here,  my  poor  child,"  said  he  ;  and  he  offered 
her  his  hand. 

"  Oh,  don't  lay  me  so  near  the  crocodile  !"  she  ex 
claimed.  "  If  he  should  wake  up  !" 

"  You  wouldn't  know  it,  if  he  did,"  rejoined  the 
patient  chemist ;  "  but  never  mind.  Step  up  to  this 
other  shelf,  if  you  like  it  better." 

He  handed  her  up  very  politely,  gathered  her  gar 
ments  about  her  feet,  crossed  her  arms  below  her 
breast,  and  told  her  to  be  perfectly  still.  He  then 
covered  his  face  with  a  mask,  let  some  gasses  escape 
from  an  apparatus  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  im 
mediately  went  out,  locking  the  door  after  him. 

The  next  day,  the  public  functionaries  looked  in, 
and  expressed  themselves  well  satisfied  to  find  the 
maiden  lying  as  rigid  and  motionless  as  the  bear,  the 
wolf,  and  the  snake.  On  the  edge  of  the  shelf  where 
she  lay  was  pasted  an  inscription  :  "  Put  to  sleep  for 
infanticide,  Feb.  10,  1740,  by  order  of  the  king.  To 
be  wakened  Feb.  10,  1840." 

The  earth  whirled  round  on  its  axis,  carrying  with 
it  the  Alps  and  the  Andes,  the  bear,  the  crocodile, 
and  the  maiden.  Summer  and  winter  came  and  went ; 
America  took  place  among  the  nations  ;  Bonaparte 
played  out  his  great  game,  with  kingdoms  for  pawns ; 
and  still  the  Swedish  damsel  slept  on  her  stone  shelf 
with  the  bear  and  the  crocodile. 

When  ninety-five  years  had  passed,  the  bear,  hav 
ing  fulfilled  his  prescribed  century,  was  waked  accord 
ing  to  agreement.  The  curious  nocked  round  him, 
to  see  him  eat,  and  hear  whether  he  could  growl  as 


212  HILDA    SILFVERLING. 

well  as  other  bears.  Not  liking  such  close  observa 
tion,  he  broke  his  chain  one  night,  and  made  off  for 
the  hills.  How  he  seemed  to  his  comrades,  and  what 
mistakes  he  made  in  his  recollections,  there  were 
never  any  means  of  ascertaining.  But  bears,  being 
more  strictly  conservative  than  men,  happily  escape 
the  influence  of  French  revolutions,  German  philoso 
phy,  Fourier  theories,  and  reforms  of  all  sorts  ;  there 
fore  Bruin  doubtless  found  less  change  in  his  fellow 
citizens,  than  an  old  knight  or  viking  rniglit  have 
done,  had  he  chanced  to  sleep  so  long. 

At  last,  came  the  maiden's  turn  to  be  resuscitated. 
The  populace  had  forgotten  her  and  her  story  long 
ago ;  but  a  select  scientific  few  were  present  at  the 
ceremony,  by  special  invitation.  The  old  chemist 
and  his  children  all  "  slept  the  sleep  that  knows  no 
waking."  But  carefully  written  orders  had  been  trans 
mitted  from  generation  to  generation ;  and  the  duty 
finally  devolved  on  a  great  grandson,  himself  a  chem 
ist  of  no  mean  reputation. 

Life  returned  very  slowly ;  at  first  by  almost  im 
perceptible  degrees,  then  by  a  visible  shivering  through 
the  nerves.  When  the  eyes  opened,  it  was  as  if  by 
the  movement  of  pulleys,  and  there  was  something 
painfully  strange  in  their  marble  gaze.  But  the  lamp 
within  the  inner  shrine  lighted  up,  and  gradually  shone 
through  them,  giving  assurance  of  the  presence  of  a 
soul.  As  consciousness  returned,  she  looked  in  the 
faces  round  her,  as  if  seeking  for  some  one  ;  for  her 
first  dim  recollection  was  of  the  old  chemist.  For 
several  days,  there  was  a  general  sluggishness  of  soul 


HILDA    SILFVERLING.  213 

and  body ;  an  overpowering  inertia,  which  made  all 
exertion  difficult,  and  prevented  memory  from  rushing 
back  in  too  tumultuous  a  tide. 

For  some  time,  she  was  very  quiet  and  patient ;  but 
the  numbers  who  came  to  look  at  her,  their  perpetual 
questions  how  things  seemed  to  her,  what  was  the 
state  of  her  appetite  and  her  memory,  made  her  rest 
less  and  irritable.  Still  worse  was  it  when  she  went 
into  the  street.  Her  numerous  visitors  pointed  her 
out  to  others,  who  ran  to  doors  and  windows  to  stare 
at  her,  and  this  soon  attracted  the  attention  of  boys 
and  lads.  To  escape  such  annoyances,  she  one  day 
walked  into  a  little  shop,  bearing  the  name  of  a  wo 
man  she  had  formerly  known.  It  was  now  kept  by 
ner  grand-daughter,  an  aged  woman,  who  was  evi 
dently  as  afraid  of  Hilda,  as  if  she  had  been  a  witch 
or  a  ghost. 

This  state  of  things  became  perfectly  unendurable. 
After  a  few  weeks,  the  forlorn  being  made  her  escape 
from  the  city,  at  dawn  of  day,  and  with  money  which 
had  been  given  her  by  charitable  people,  she  obtained 
a  passage  to  her  native  village,  under  the  new  name 
of  Hilda  Silfverling.  But  to  stand,  in  the  bloom  of 
sixteen,  among  well-remembered  hills  and  streams, 
and  not  recognise  a  single  human  face,  or  know  a  sin 
gle  human  voice,  this  was  the  most  mournful  of  all ; 
far  worse  than  loneliness  in  a  foreign  land ;  sadder 
than  sunshine  on  a  ruined  city.  And  all  these  suffo 
cating  emotions  must  be  crowded  back  on  her  own 
heart ;  for  if  she  revealed  them  to  any  one,  she  would 
assuredly  be  considered  insane  or  bewitched. 

As  the  thought  became  familiar  to  her  that  even  the 


214  HILDA    SILFVERLING. 

little  children  she  had  known  were  all  dead  long-  ago, 
her  eyes  assumed  an  indescribably  perplexed  and 
mournful  expression,  which  gave  them  an  appearance 
of  supernatural  depth.  She  was  seized  with  an  inex 
pressible  longing  to  go  where  no  one  had  ever  heard 
of  her,  and  among  scenes  she  had  never  looked  upon. 
Her  thoughts  often  reverted  fondly  to  old  Virika  Gjet- 
ter,  and  the  babe  for  whose  sake  she  had  suffered  so 
much  ;  and  her  heart  yearned  for  Norway.  But  then 
she  was  chilled  by  the  remembrance  that  even  if  her 
child  had  lived  to  the  usual  age  of  mortals,  she  must 
have  been  long  since  dead ;  and  if  she  had  left  de 
scendants,  what  would  they  know  of  her  ?  Over 
whelmed  by  the  complete  desolation  of  her  lot  on  earth, 
she  wept  bitterly.  But  she  was  never  utterly  hope 
less  ;  for  in  the  midst  of  her  anguish,  something  pro 
phetic  seemed  to  beckon  through  the  clouds,  and  call 
her  into  Norway. 

In  Stockholm,  there  was  a  white-haired  old  clergy 
man,  who  had  been  peculiarly  kind,  when  he  came 
to  see  her,  after  her  centennial  slumber.  She  resolved 
to  go  to  him,  to  tell  him  how  oppressively  dreary  was 
her  restored  existence,  and  how  earnestly  she  desired 
to  go,  under  a  new  name,  to  some  secluded  village  in 
Norway,  where  none  would  be  likely  to  learn  her  his 
tory,  and  where  there  would  be  nothing  to  remind  her 
of  the  gloomy  past.  The  good  old  man  entered  at 
once  into  her  feelings,  and  approved  her  plan.  He 
had  been  in  that  country  himself,  and  had  staid  a  few 
days  at  the  house  of  a  kind  old  man,  named  Eystein 
Hansen.  He  furnished  Hilda  with  means  for  the 
journey,  and  gave  her  an  affectionate  letter  of  intro- 


HILDA    SILFVERLING.  215 

duction,  in  which  he  described  her  as  a  Swedish  or 
phan,  who  had  suffered  much,  and  would  be  glad  to 
earn  her  living  in  any  honest  way  that  could  be  point 
ed  out  to  her. 

It  was  the  middle  of  June  when  Hilda  arrived  at 
the  house  of  Eystein  Hanson.  He  was  a  stout,  clum 
sy,  red-visaged  old  man,  with  wide  mouth,  and  big 
nose,  hooked  like  an  eagle's  beak ;  but  there  was  a 
right  friendly  expression  in  his  large  eyes,  and  when 
he  had  read  the  letter,  he  greeted  the  young  stranger 
with  such  cordiality,  she  felt  at  once  that  she  had 
found  a  father.  She  must  come  in  his  boat,  he  said, 
and  he  would  take  her  at  once  to  his  island-home, 
where  his  good  woman  would  give  her  a  hearty  wel 
come.  She  always  loved  the  friendless  ;  and  espe 
cially  would  she  love  the  Swedish  orphan,  because 
her  last  and  youngest  daughter  had  died  the  year  be 
fore.  On  his  way  to  the  boat,  the  worthy  man  intro 
duced  her  to  several  people,  and  when  he  told  her 
story,  old  men  and  young  maidens  took  her  by  the 
hand,  and  spoke  as  if  they  thought  Heaven  had  sent 
them  a  daughter  and  a  sister.  The  good  Brenda 
received  her  with  open  arms,  as  her  husband  had  said 
she  would.  She  was  an  old  weather-beaten  woman, 
but  there  was  a  whole  heart  full  of  sunshine  in  her 
honest  eyes. 

And  this  new  home  looked  so  pleasant  under  the 
light  of  the  summer  sky  !  The  house  was  embower 
ed  in  the  shrubbery  of  a  small  island,  in  the  midst  ol 
a  fiord,  the  steep  shores  of  which  were  thickly  covered 
with  pine,  fir,  and  juniper,  down  to  the  water's  edge, 


216  HILDA    SILFVERLING. 

The  fiord  went  twisting  and  turning  about,  from  pro 
montory  to  promontory,  as  if  the  Nereides,  dancing 
up  from  the  sea,  had  sportively  chased  each  other 
into  nooks  and  corners,  now  hiding  away  behind  some 
bold  projection  of  rock,  and  now  peeping  out  sudden 
ly,  with  a  broad  sunny  smile.  Directly  in  front  of  the 
island,  the  fiord  expanded  into  a  broad  bay,  on  the 
shores  of  which  was  a  little  primitive  romantic-looking 
village.  Here  and  there  a  sloop  was  at  anchor,  and 
picturesque  little  boats  tacked  off  and  on  from  cape  to 
cape,  their  white  sails  glancing  in  the  sun.  A  range 
of  lofty  blue  mountains  closed  in  the  distance.  One 
giant,  higher  than  all  the  rest,  went  up  perpendicu 
larly  into  the  clouds,  wearing  a  perpetual  crown  of 
glittering  snow.  As  the  maiden  gazed  on  this  sub 
lime  and  beautiful  scenery,  a  new  and  warmer  tide 
seemed  to  flow  through  her  stagnant  heart.  Ah,  how 
happy  might  life  be  here  among  these  mountain 
homes,  with  a  people  of  such  patriarchal  simplicity, 
so  brave  and  free,  so  hospitable,  frank  and  hearty! 

The  house  of  Eystein  Hansen  was  built  of  pine 
logs,  neatly  white-washed.  The  roof  was  covered 
with  grass,  and  bore  a  crop  of  large  bushes.  A  vine, 
tangled  among  these,  fell  in  heavy  festoons  that  waved 
at  every  touch  of  the  wind.  The  door  was  painted 
with  flowers  in  gay  colours,  and  surmounted  with  fan 
tastic  carving.  The  interior  of  the  dwelling  was  or 
namented  with  many  little  grotesque  images,  boxes, 
bowls,  ladles,  &c.,  curiously  carved  in  the  close- 
grained  and  beautifully  white  wood  of  the  Norwegian 
fir.  This  was  a  common  amusement  with  the  peas- 


HILDA   SILFVERLIN3.  217 

antry,  and  Eystein  being  a  great  favourite  among 
them,  received  many  such  presents  during  his  frequent 
visits  in  the  surrounding  parishes. 

But  nothing  so  much  attracted  Hilda's  attention  as 
a  kind  of  Jong  trumpet,  made  of  two  hollow  half  cy 
linders  of  wood,  bound  tightly  together  with  birch 
bark.  The  only  instrument  of  the  kind  she  had  ever 
seen  was  in  the  possession  of  Virika  Gjetter,  who  call 
ed  it  a  luhr,  and  said  it  was  used  to  call  the  cows 
home  in  her  native  village,  in  Upper  Tellemarken. 
She  showed  how  it  was  used,  and  Hilda,  having  a 
quick  ear,  soon  learned  to  play  upon  it  with  consider 
able  facility. 

And  here  in  her  new  home,  this  rude  instrument 
reappeared ;  forming  the  only  visible  link  between  her 
present  life  and  that  dreamy  past!  With  strange 
feelings,  she  took  up  the  pipe,  and  began  to  play  one 
of  the  old  tunes.  At  first,  the  tones  flitted  like  phan 
toms  in  and  out  of  her  brain  ;  but  at  last,  they  all  came 
back,  and  took  their  places  rank  and  file.  Old  Bren- 
da  said  it  was  a  pleasant  tune,  and  asked  her  to  play 
it  again  ;  but  to  Hilda  it  seemed  awfully  solemn,  like 
a  voice  warbling  from  the  grave.  She  would  learn 
other  tunes  to  please  the  good  mother,  she  said;  but 
this  she  would  play  no  more  ;  it  made  her  too  sad,  for 
she  had  heard  it  in  her  youth. 

"  Thy  youth  !"  said  Brenda,  smiling."  One  sees 
well  that  must  have  been  a  long  time  ago.  To  hear 
thee  talk,  one  might  suppose  thou  wert  an  old  autumn 
leaf,  just  ready  to  drop  from  the  bough,  like  myself." 

Hilda  blushed,  and  said  she  felt  old,  because  she 
had  had  much  trouble. 
19 


218  HILDA  SILFVERLING. 

"  Poor  child,"  responded  the  good  Brenda :  "  I  hope 
thou  hast  had  thy  share." 

"  I  feel  as  if  nothing  could  trouble  me  here,"  re 
plied  Hilda,  with  a  grateful  smile  ;  "  all  seems  so  kind 
and  peaceful."  She  breathed  a  few  notes  through  the 
luhr,  as  she  laid  it  away  on  the  shelf  where  she  had 
found  it.  "  But,  my  good  mother,"  said  she,  "  how 
clear  and  soft  are  these  tones !  The  pipe  I  used  to 
hear  was  far  more  harsh." 

"  The  wood  is  very  old,"  rejoined  Brenda  :  "  They 
say  it  is  more  than  a  hundred  years.  Alerik  Thorild 
gave  it  to  me,  to  call  my  good  man  when  he  is  out  in 
the  boat.  Ah,  he  was  such  a  Berserker1*  of  a  boy  ! 
and  in  truth  he  was  not  much  more  sober  when  he 
was  here  three  years  ago.  But  no  matter  what  he 
did;  one  could  never  help  loving  him." 

"  And  who  is  Alerik  ?"  asked  the  maiden. 

Brenda  pointed  to  an  old  house,  seen  in  the  dis 
tance,  on  the  declivity  of  one  of  the  opposite  hills.  It 
overlooked  the  broad  bright  bay,  with  its  picturesque 
little  islands,  and  was  sheltered  in  the  rear  by  a  noble 
pine  forest.  A  water-fall  came  down  from  the  hill 
side,  glancing  in  and  out  among  the  trees ;  and  when 
the  sun  kissed  it  as  he  went  away,  it  lighted  up  with 
a  smile  of  rainbows. 

"  That  house,"  said  Brenda,  "  was  built  by  Alerik's 
grandfather.  He  was  the  richest  man  in  the  village. 
But  his  only  son  was  away  among  the  wars  for  a  long 
time,  and  the  old  place  has  been  going  to  decay.  But 
they  say  Alerik  is  coming  back  to  live  among  us  ;  and 

*  A  warrior  famous  in  the  Northern  Sagas  for  his  stormy  and  untamable 
character. 


HILDA    SILFVERLING.  219 

he  will  soon  give  it  a  different  look.  He  has  been 
away  to  Germany  and  Paris,  and  other  outlandish 
parts,  for  a  long  time.  Ah  !  the  rogue  !  there  was  no 
mischief  he  didn't  think  of.  He  was  always  tying  cats 
together  under  the  windows,  and  barking  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  night,  till  he  set  all  the  dogs  in  the  neigh 
bourhood  a  howling.  But  as  long  as  it  was  Alerik 

o  o 

that  did  it,  it  was  all  well  enough  :  for  everybody 
loved  him,  and  he  always  made  one  believe  just  what 
he  liked.  If  he  wanted  to  make  thee  think  thy  hair 
was  as  black  as  Noeck's*  mane,  he  would  make  thee 
think  so." 

Hilda  smiled  as  she  glanced  at  her  flaxen  hair, 
with  here  and  there  a  gleam  of  paly  gold,  where  the 
sun  touched  it.  "  I  think  it  would  be  hard  to  prove 
this  was  black,"  said  she. 

"  Nevertheless,"  rejoined  Brenda,  "  if  Alerik  un 
dertook  it,  he  would  do  it.  He  always  has  his  say, 
and  does  what  he  will.  One  may  as  well  give  in  to 
him  first  as  last." 

This  account  of  the  unknown  youth  carried  with  it 
that  species  of  fascination,  which  the  idea  of  uncom 
mon  power  always  has  over  the  human  heart.  The  se 
cluded  maiden  seldom  touched  the  luhr  without  thinking 
of  the  giver  ;  and  not  unfrequently  she  found  herself 
conjecturing  when  this  wonderful  Alerik  would  come 
home. 

Meanwhile,  constant  but  not  excessive  labour,  the 
mountain  air,  the  quiet  life,  and  the  kindly  hearts 
around  her,  restored  to  Hilda  more  than  her  original 

*  An  elfish  spirit,  which,  according  to  popular  tradition  in  Norway,  ap 
pears  in  the  form  of  a  coal  black  horse. 


220  HILDA  SILFVEKLING. 

loveliness.  In  her  large  blue  eyes,  the  inward-look 
ing  sadness  of  experience  now  mingled  in  strange 
beauty  with  the  out-looking  clearness  of  youth.  Her 
fair  complexion  was  tinged  with  the  glow  of  health, 
and  her  motions  had  the  airy  buoyancy  of  the  moui.- 
tain  breeze.  When  she  went  to  the  mainland,  to  at 
tend  church,  or  rustic  festival,  the  hearts  of  young 
and  old  greeted  her  like  a  May  blossom.  Thus  with 
calm  cheerfulness  her  hours  went  by,  making  no  noise 
in  their  flight,  and  leaving  no  impress.  But  here  was 
an  unsatisfied  want !  She  sighed  for  hours  that  did 
leave  a  mark  behind  them.  She  thought  of  the 
Danish  youth,  who  had  first  spoken  to  her  of  love  ; 
and  plaintively  came  the  tones  from  her  luhr,  as  she 
gazed  on  the  opposite  hills,  and  wondered  whether 
the  Alerik  they  talked  of  so  much,  was  indeed  so 
very  superior  to  other  young  men. 

Father  Hansen  often  came  home  at  twilight  with  a 
boat  full  of  juniper  boughs,  to  be  strewed  over  the 
floors,  that  they  might  diffuse  a  balmy  odour,  inviting 
to  sleep.  One  evening,  when  Hilda  saw  him  coming 
with  his  verdant  load,  she  hastened  down  to  the  water's 
edge  to  take  an  armful  of  the  fragrant  boughs.  She 
had  scarcely  appeared  in  sight,  before  he  called  out, 
"  I  do  believe  Alerik  has  come  !  I  heard  the  organ 
tip  in  the  old  house.  Somebody  was  playing  on  it 
like  a  Northeast  storm  ;  and  surely,  said  I,  that  must 
be  Alerik." 

"  Is  there  an  organ  there  ?"  asked  the  damsel,  in 
surprise. 

"  Yes.  He  built  it  himself,  when  he  was  here 
three  years  ago.  He  can  make  anything  he  chooses. 


HILDA    SILFVERLING.  221 

An  organ,  or  a  basket  cut  from  a  cherry  stone,  is  all 
one  to  him. 

When  Hilda  returned  to  the  cottage,  she  of  course 
repeated  the  news  to  Brenda,  who  exclaimed  joyfully, 
"  Ah,  then  we  shall  see  him  soon  !  If  he  does  not 
come  before,  we  shall  certainly  see  him  at  the  wed- 
di  igs  in  the  church  to-morrow. 

"  And  plenty  of  tricks  we  shall  have  now,"  said 
Father  Hansen,  shaking  his  head  with  a  good-natured 
smile.  "  There  will  be  no  telling  which  end  of  the 
world  is  uppermost,  while  he  is  here." 

"  Oh  yes,  there  will,  my  friend,"  answered  Brenda, 
laughing ;  "  for  it  will  certainly  be  whichever  end 
Alerik  stands  on.  The  handsome  little  Berserker ! 
How  I  should  like  to  see  him  !" 

The  next  day  there  was  a  sound  of  lively  music  on 
the  waters  ;  for  two  young  couples  from  neighbouring 
islands  were  coming  up  the  fiord,  to  be  married  at  the 
church  in  the  opposite  village.  Their  boats  were 
ornamented  with  gay  little  banners,  friends  and 
neighbours  accompanied  them,  playing  on  musical 
instruments,  and  the  rowers  had  their  hats  decorated 
with  garlands.  As  the  rustic  band  floated  thus  gayly 
over  the  bright  waters,  they  were  joined  by  Father 
Hansen,  with  Brenda  and  Hilda  in  his  boat. 

Friendly  villagers  had  already  decked  the  simple 
little  church  with  ever-greens  and  flowers,  in  honour 
of  the  bridal  train.  As  they  entered,  Father  Hansen 
observed  that  two  young  men  stood  at  the  door  with 
clarinets  in  their  hands.  But  he  thought  no  more  of 
it,  till,  according  to  immemorial  custom,  he,  as  clergy 
man's  assistant,  began  to  sing  the  first  lines  of  the 
19* 


222  HILDA    SILFVERLING. 

hymn  that  was  given  out.  The  very  first  note  he 
'sounded,  up  struck  the  clarinets  at  the  door.  The 
louder  they  played,  the  louder  the  old  man  bawled  ; 
but  the  instruments  gained  the  victory.  When  he 
essayed  to  give  out  the  lines  of  the  next  verse,  the 
merciless  clarinets  brayed  louder  than  before.  His 
stentorian  voice  had  become  vociferous  and  rough, 
from  thirty  years  of  halloing  across  the  water,  and 
singing  of  psalms  in  four  village  churches.  He  ex 
erted  it  to  the  utmost,  till  the  perspiration  poured  down 
his  rubicund  visage  ;  but  it  was  of  no  use.  His 
rivals  had  strong  lungs,  and  they  played  on  clarinets 
in  F.  If  the  whole  village  had  screamed  fire,  to  the 
shrill  accompaniment  of  rail-road  whistles,  they  would 
have  over-topped  them  all. 

Father  Hansen  was  vexed  at  heart,  and  it  was  plain 
enough  that  he  was  so.  The  congregation  held  down 
their  heads  with  suppressed  laughter  ;  all  except  one 
tall  vigorous  young  man,  who  sat  up  very  serious  and 
dignified,  as  if  he  were  reverently  listening  to  some 
new  manifestation  of  musical  genius.  When  the 
people  left  church,  Hilda  saw  this  young  stranger  ap 
proaching  toward  them,  as  fast  as  numerous  hand 
shakings  by  the  way  would  permit.  She  had  time  to 
observe  him  closely.  His  noble  figure,  his  vigorous 
agile  motions,  his  expressive  countenance,  hazel  eyes 
with  strongly  marked  brows,  and  abundant  brown  hair, 
tossed  aside  with  a  careless  grace,  left  no  doubt  in  her 
mind  that  this  was  the  famous  Alerik  Thorild ;  but 
what  made  her  heart  beat  more  wildly  was  his  strong 
resemblance  to  Magnus  the  Dane.  He  went  up  to 
Brenda  and  kissed  her,  arid  threw  his  arms  about 


HILDA   SILFVERLING.  223 

Father  Hansen's  neck,  with  expressions  of  joyful  re 
cognition.  The  kind  old  man,  vexed  as  he  was,  re 
ceived  these  affectionate  demonstrations  with  great 
friendliness.  "  Ah,  Alerik,"  said  he,  after  the  first 
salutations  were  over,  "  that  was  not  kind  of  thee." 

"  Me  !  What !"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  with 
well-feigned  astonishment. 

"  To  put  up  those  confounded  clarinets  to  drown  rny 
voice,"  rejoined  he  bluntly.  "  When  a  man  has  led 
the  singing  thirty  years  in  four  parishes,  I  can  assure 
thee  it  is  not  a  pleasant  joke  to  be  treated  in  that  style. 
I  know  the  young  men  are  tired  of  my  voice,  and 
think  they  could  do  things  in  better  fashion,  as  young 
fools  always  do ;  but  I  may  thank  thee  for  putting  it 
into  their  heads  to  bring  those  cursed  clarinets." 

"  Oh,  dear  Father  Hansen,"  replied  the  young  man, 
in  the  most  coaxing  tones,  and  with  the  most  caressing 
manner,  "  you  couldn't  think  I  would  do  such  a 
thing !" 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  is  just  the  thing  I  think  thou 
couldst  do,"  answered  the  old  man  :  "  Thou  need  not 
think  to  cheat  me  out  of  my  eye-teeth,  this  time. 
Thou  hast  often  enough  made  me  believe  the  moon 
was  made  of  green  cheese.  But  I  know  thy  tricks. 
I  shall  be  on  my  guard  now  ;  and  mind  thee,  I  am 
not  going  to  be  bamboozled  by  thee  again." 

Alerik  smiled  mischievously ;  for  he,  in  common 
with  all  the  villagers,  knew  it  was  the  easiest  thing  in 
the  world  to  gull  the  simple-hearted  old  man.  "  Well, 
come,  Father  Hansen,"  said  he,  "  shake  hands  and  be 
friends.  When  you  come  over  to  the  village,  to- 


224  HILDA    SILFVKRL1NG. 

morrow,  we  will  drink  a  mug  of  ale  together,  at  the 
Wolfs  Head." 

"  Oh  yes,  and  be  played  some  trick  for  his  pains," 
said  Brenda. 

"  No,  no,"  answered  Alerik,  with  great  gravity ; 
"  he  is  on  his  guard  now,  and  I  cannot  bamboozle  him 
again."  With  a  friendly  nod  and  smile,  he  bounded 
off,  to  greet  some  one  whom  he  recognised.  Hilda 
had  stepped  back  to  hide  herself  from  observation. 
She  was  a  little  afraid  of  the  handsome  Berserker ; 
and  his  resemblance  to  the  Magnus  of  her  youthful 
recollections  made  her  sad. 

The  next  afternoon,  Alerik  met  his  old  friend,  and 
reminded  him  of  the  agreement  to  drink  ale  at  the 
Wolfs  head.  On  the  way,  he  invited  several  young 
companions.  The  ale  was  excellent,  and  Alerik  told 
stories  and  sang  songs,  which  filled  the  little  tavern 
with  roars  of  laughter.  In  one  of  the  intervals  of 
merriment,  he  turned  suddenly  to  the  honest  old  man, 
and  said,  "  Father  Hansen,  among  the  many  things 
I  have  learned  and  done  in  foreign  countries,  did  I 
ever  tell  you  I  had  made  a  league  with  the  devil,  and 
am  shot-proof?" 

"  One  might  easily  believe  thou  hadst  made  a  league 
with  the  devil,  before  thou  wert  born,"  replied  Eystein, 
with  a  grin  at  his  own  wit ;  "  but  as,  for  being  shot- 
proof,  that  is  another  affair." 

"  Try  and  see,"  rejoined  Alerik.  "  These  friends 
are  winesses  that  I  tell  you  it  is  perfectly  safe  to  try. 
Come,  I  will  stand  here  ;  fire  your  pistol,  and  you 
will  soon  see  that  the  Evil  One  will  keep  the  bargain  he 
made  with  me." 


HILDA    SILFVERLING.  225 

"  Be  done  with  thy  nonsense,  Alerik,"  rejoined  his 
old  friend. 

"  Ah,  I  see  how  it  is,"  replied  Alerik,  turning  to 
wards  the  young  men.  "  Father  Hansen  used  to  be 
a  famous  shot.  Nobody  was  more  expert  in  the  bear 
or  the  w^olf-hunt  than  he  ;  but  old  eyes  grow  dim, 
and  old  hands  will  tremble.  No  wonder  he  does  not 
like  to  have  us  see  how  much  he  fails." 

This  was  attacking  honest  Eystein  Hansen  on  his 
weak  side.  He  was  proud  of  his  strength  and  skill 
in  shooting,  and  he  did  not  like  to  admit  that  he  was 
growing  old.  "  I  not  hit  a  mark  !"  exclaimed  he,  with 
indignation  :  "  When  did  I  ever  miss  a  thing  I  aimed 
at?" 

"  Never,  when  you  were  young,"  answered  one  of 
the  company  ;  "  but  it  is  no  wonder  you  are  afraid  to 
try  now." 

"  Afraid  !"  exclaimed  the  old  hunter,  impatiently. 
"  Who  the  devil  said  I  was  afraid  ?" 

Alerik  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  replied  care 
lessly,  "  It  is  natural  enough  that  these  young  men 
should  think  so,  when  they  see  you  refuse  to  aim  at 
me,  though  I  assure  you  that  I  am  shot  proof,  and 
that  I  will  stand  perfectly  still." 

"  But  art  thou  really  shot-proof?"  inquired  the 
guileless  old  man.  "  The  devil  has  helped  thee  to  do 
so  many  strange  things,  that  one  never  knows  wha: 
he  will  help  thee  to  do  next.". 

"  Really,  Father  Hansen,  I  speak  in  earnest.  Take 
up  your  pistol  and  try,  and  you  will  soon  see  with 
your  own  eyes  that  I  am  shot-proof." 

Eystein  looked  round  upon  the  company  like  one 


226  HILDA    SILFVERLIiNG. 

perplexed.  His  wits,  never  very  bright,  were  some 
what  muddled  by  the  ale.  "  What  shall  I  do  with 
this  wild  fellow  ?"  inquired  he.  "  You  see  he  will 
be  shot." 

"  Try  him,  try  him,"  was  the  general  response. 
"He  has  assured  you  he  is  shot-proof;  what  more 
do  you  need  ?" 

The  old  man  hesitated  awhile,  but  after  some  fur 
ther  parley,  took  up  his  pistol  and  examined  it.  "  Be 
fore  we  proceed  to  business,"  said  Alerik,  "  let  me 
tell  you  that  if  you  do  not  shoot  me,  you  shall  have  a 
gallon  of  the  best  ale  you  ever  drank  in  your  life. 
Come  and  taste  it,  Father  Hansen,  and  satisfy  your 
self  that  it  is  good." 

While  they  were  discussing  the  merits  of  the  ale, 
one  of  the  young  men  took  the  ball  from  the  pistol. 
"  I  am  ready  now,"  said  Alerik  :  "  Here  I  stand. 
Now  don't  lose  your  name  for  a  good  marksman." 

The  old  man  fired,  and  Alerik  fell  back  with  a 
deadly  groan.  Poor  Eystein  stood  like  a  stone  image 
of  terror.  His  arms  adhered  rigidly  to  his  sides,  his 
jaw  dropped,  and  his  great  eyes  seemed  starting  from 
their  sockets.  "  Oh,  Father  Hansen,  how  could  you 
do  it !"  exclaimed  the  young  men. 

The  poor  horrified  dupe  stared  at  them  wildly,  and 
gasping  and  stammering  replied,  "  Why  he  said  he 
was  shot-proof;  and  you  all  told  me  to  do  it." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  they  ;  "  but  we  supposed  you  would 
have  sense  enough  to  know  it  was  all  in  fun.  But 
don't  take  it  too  much  to  heart.  You  will  probably 
forfeit  your  life ;  for  the  government  will  of  course 
consider  it  a  poor  excuse,  when  you  tell  them  that 


HILDA    SILFVERLING.  227 

you  fired  at  a  man  merely  to  oblige  him,  and  because 
he  said  he  was  shot-proof.  But  don't  be  too  much 
cast  down,  Father  Hansen.  We  must  all.  meet  death 
in  some  way ;  and  if  worst  comes  to  worst,  it  will  be 
a  great  comfort  to  you  and  your  good  Brenda  that  you 
did  not  intend  to  commit  murder." 

The  poor  old  man  gazed  at  them  with  an  expres 
sion  of  such  extreme  suffering,  that  they  became  alarm 
ed,  and  said,  "  Cheer  up,  cheer  up.  Come,  you  must 
drink  something  to  make  you  feel  better."  They 
took  him  by  the  shoulders,  but  as  they  led  him  out, 
he  continued  to  look  back  wistfully  on  the  body. 

The  instant  he  left  the  apartment,  Alerik  sprang 
up  and  darted  out  of  the  opposite  door ;  and  when 
Father  Hansen  entered  the  other  room,  there  he  sat, 
as  composedly  as  possible,  reading  a  paper,  and  smo 
king  his  pipe. 

"  There  he  is  !"  shrieked  the  old  man,  turning  paler 
than  ever. 

"  Who  is  there  ?"  inquired  the  young  men. 

"  Don't  you  see  Alerik  Thorild  ?"  exclaimed  he, 
pointing,  with  an  expression  of  intense  horror. 

They  turned  to  the  landlord,  and  remarked,  in  a 
compassionate  tone,  "  Poor  Father  Hansen  has  shot 
Alerik  Thorild,  whom  he  loved  so  well ;  and  the 
dreadful  accident  has  so  affected  his  brain,  that  he 
imagines  he  sees  him." 

The  old  man  pressed  his  broad  hand  hard  against 
his  forehead,  and  again  groaned  out,  "  Oh,  don't  you 
see  him  ?" 

The  tones  indicated  such  agony,  that  Alerik  had 


228  HILDA   SILFVERLING. 

not  the  heart  to  prolong  the  scene.  He  sprang  on  his 
feet,  and  exclaimed,  "  Now  for  your  gallon  of  ale, 
Father  Hansen  !  You  see  the  devil  did  keep  his  bar 
gain  with  me." 

"  And  are  you  alive  ?"  shouted  the  old  man. 

The  mischievous  fellow  soon  convinced  him  of  that, 
by  a  slap  on  the  shoulder,  that  made  his  bones  ache. 

Eystein  Hansen  capered  like  a  dancing  bear.  He 
hugged  Alerik,  and  jumped  about,  and  clapped  his 
hands,  and  was  altogether  beside  himself.  He  drank 
unknown  quantities  of  ale,  and  this  time  sang  loud 
enough  to  drown  a  brace  of  clarinets  in  F. 

The  night  was  far  advanced  when  he  went  on 
board  his  boat  to  return  to  his  island  home.  He  pull 
ed  the  oars  vigorously,  and  the  boat  shot  swiftly  across 
the  moon-lighted  waters.  But  on  arriving  at  the  cus 
tomary  landing,  he  could  discover  no  vestige  of  his 
white-washed  cottage.  Not  knowing  that  Alerik,  in 
the  full  tide  of  his  mischief,  had  sent  men  to  paint  the 
house  with  a  dark  brown  wash,  he  thought  he  must 
have  made  a  mistake  in  the  landing;  so  he  rowed 
round  to  the  other  side  of  the  island,  but  with  no  bet 
ter  success.  Ashamed  to  return  to  the  mainland,  to 
inquire  for  a  house  that  had  absconded,  and  a  little 
suspicious  that  the  ale  had  hung  some  cobwebs  in  his 
hrain,  he  continued  to  row  hither  and  thither,  till  his 
strong  muscular  arms  fairly  ached  with  exertion.  But 
the  moon  was  going  down,  and  all  the  landscape 
settling  into  darkness ;  and  he  at  last  reluctantly  con 
cluded  that  it  was  best  to  go  back  to  the  village  inn. 

Alerik,  who  had  expected  this  result  much  sooner, 


HILDA    SILFVERLING.  229 

had  waited  there  to  receive  him.  When  he  had  kept 
him  knocking  a  sufficient  time,  he  put  his  head  out  of 
the  window,  and  inquired  who  was  there. 

"  Eystein  Hansen,"  was  the  disconsolate  reply. 
"  For  the  love  of  mercy  let  me  come  in  and  get  a  few 
minutes  sleep,  before  morning.  I  have  been  rowing 
about  the  bay  these  four  hours,  and  I  can't  find  my 
house  any  where." 

"  This  is  a  very  bad  sign,"  replied  Alerik,  solemn 
ly.  "  Houses  don't  run  away,  except  from  drunken 
men.  Ah,  Father  Hansen  !  Father  Hansen !  what 
will  the  minister  say  ?" 

He  did  not  have  a  chance  to  persecute  the  weary 
old  man  much  longer ;  for  scarcely  had  he  come  un 
der  the  shelter  of  the  house,  before  he  was  snoring  in 
a  profound  sleep. 

Early  the  next  day,  Alerik  sought  his  old  friends  in 
their  brown-washed  cottage.  He  found  it  not  so  easy 
to  conciliate  them  as  usual.  They  were  really  griev 
ed  ;  and  Brenda  even  said  she  believed  he  wanted  to 
be  the  death  of  her  old  man.  But  he  had  brought 
them  presents,  which  he  knew  they  would  like  par 
ticularly  well ;  and  he  kissed  their  hands,  and  talked 
over  his  boyish  days,  till  at  last  he  made  them  laugh. 
"  Ah  now,"  said  he,  "  you  have  forgiven  me,  my  dear 
old  friends.  And  you  see,  father,  it  was  all  your  own 
fault.  You  put  the  mischief  into  me,  by  boasting  be 
fore  all  those  young  men  that  I  could  never  bamboo 
zle  you  again." 

"Ah  thou  incorrigible  rogue!"  answered  the  old 
man.  "  I  believe  thou  hast  indeed  made  a  league 
20 


230  HILDA    SILFVERLING. 

with  the  devil ;  and  he  gives  thee  the  power  to  make 
every  body  love  thee,  do  what  thou  wilt." 

Alerik's  smile  seemed  to  express  that  he  always 
had  a  pleasant  consciousness  of  such  power.  The 
luhr  lay  on  the  table  beside  him,  and  as  he  took  it  up, 
he  asked,  "  Who  plays  on  this  ?  Yesterday,  when  I 
was  out  in  my  boat,  I  heard  very  wild  pretty  little 
variations  on  some  of  my  old  favourite  airs." 

Brenda,  instead  of  answering,  called,  "  Hilda  !  Hil 
da  !"  and  the  young  girl  came  from  the  next  room, 
blushing  as  she  entered.  Alerik  looked  at  her  with 
evident  surprise.  "  Surely,  this  is  not  your  Gunil- 
da  ?"  said  he. 

"  No,"  replied  Brenda,  "  She  is  a  Swedish  orphan, 
whom  the  all-kind  Father  sent  to  take  the  place  of 
our  Gunilda,  when  she  was  called  hence." 

After  some  words  of  friendly  greeting,  the  visitor 
asked  Hilda  if  it  was  she  who  played  so  sweetly  on 
the  luhr.  She  answered  timidly,  without  looking  up. 
Her  heart  was  throbbing ;  for  the  tones  of  his  voice 
were  like  Magnus  the  Dane. 

The  acquaintance  thus  begun,  was  not  likely  to 
languish  on  the  part  of  such  an  admirer  of  beauty  as 
was  Alerik  Thorild.  The  more  he  saw  of  Hilda, 
during  the  long  evenings  of  the  following  winter,  the 
more  he  was  charmed  with  her  natural  refinement  of 
look,  voice,  and  manner.  There  was,  as  we  have 
said,  a  peculiarity  in  her  beauty,  which  gave  it  a  high 
er  character  than  mere  rustic  loveliness.  A  deep, 
mystic,  plaintive  expression  in  her  eyes  ;  a  sort  of 
graceful  bewilderment  in  her  countenance,  and  at 


HILDA    SILFVERLING.  231 

times  in  the  carriage  of  her  head,  and  the  motions  of 
her  body;  as  if  her  spirit  had  lost  its  way,  and  was 
listening  intently.  It  was  not  strange  that  he  was 
charmed  by  her  spiritual  beauty,  h-jr  ^rnple  untutored 
modesty.  No  wonder  sie  was  delighted  with  his 
frank  strong  exterior,  his  cordial  caressing  manner, 
his  expressive  eyes,  now  tender  and  earnest,  and  now 
sparkling  with  merriment,  and  his  "  smile  most  mu 
sical,"  because  always  so  in  harmony  with  the  inward 
feeling,  whether  of  sadness,  fun,  or  tenderness.  Then 
his  moods  were  so  bewitchingly  various.  Now  pow 
erful  as  the  organ,  now  bright  as  the  flute,  now  naive 
as  the  oboe.  Brenda  said  every  thing  he  did  seemed 
to  be  alive.  He  carved  a  wolfs  head  on  her  old  man's 
cane,  and  she  was  always  afraid  it  would  bite  her. 

Brenda,  in  her  simplicity,  perhaps  gave  as  good  a 
description  of  genius  as  could  be  given,  when  she  said 
everything  it  did  seemed  to  be  alive.  Hilda  thought 
it  certainly  was  so  with  Alerik's  music.  Sometimes 
all  went  madly  with  it,  as  if  fairies  danced  on  the 
grass,  and  ugly  gnomes  came  and  made  faces  at  them, 
and  shrieked,  and  clutched  at  their  garments;  the 
fairies  pelted  them  off  with  flowers,  and  then  all  died 
away  to  sleep  in  the  moonlight.  Sometimes,  when 
he  played  on  flute,  or  violin,  the  sounds  came  mourn 
fully  as  the  midnight  wind  through  ruined  towers  ; 
and  they  stirred  up  such  sorrowful  memories  of  the 
past,  that  Hilda  pressed  her  hand  upon  her  swelling 
heart,  and  said,  "  Oh,  not  such  strains  as  that,  dear 
Alerik."  But  when  his  soul  overflowed  with  love 
and  happiness,  oh,  then  how  the  music  gushed  and 
nestled ! 


232  HILDA    SILFVERLING. 

"  The  lark  could  scarce  get  out  his  notes  for  joy, 
But  shook  his  song  together,  as  he  neared 
His  happy  home,  the  ground." 

The  old  luhr  was  a  great  favourite  with  Alerik ; 
not  for  its  musical  capabilities,  but  because  it  was  en 
twined  with  the  earliest  recollections  of  his  childhood. 
"  Until  I  heard  thee  play  upon  it,"  said  he,  "  I  half  re 
pented  having  given  it  to  the  good  Brenda.  It  has 
been  in  our  family  for  several  generations,  and  my 
nurse  used  to  play  upon  it  when  I  was  in  my  cradle. 
They  tell  me  my  grandmother  was  a  foundling.  She 
was  brought  to  my  great-grandfather's  house  by  an 
old  peasant  woman,  on  her  way  to  the  valley  of 
Westfjordalen.  She  died  there,  leaving  the  babe  and 
the  luhr  in  rny  great-grandmother's  keeping.  They 
could  never  find  out  to  whom  the  babe  belonged ;  but 
she  grew  up  very  beautiful,  and  my  grandfather  mar 
ried  her." 

"  What  was  the  old  woman's  name  ?"  asked  Hilda ; 
and  her  voice  was  so  deep  and  suppressed,  that  it 
it  made  Alerik  start. 

"  Virika  Gjetter,  they  have  always  told  me,"  he  re 
plied.  "But  my  dearest  one,  what  is  the  matter?" 

Hilda,  pale  and  fainting,  made  no  answer.  But 
when  he  placed  her  head  upon  his  bosom,  and  kissed 
her  forehead,  and  spoke  soothingly,  her  glazed  eyes 
softened,  and  she  burst  into  tears.  All  his  entreaties, 
however,  could  obtain  no  information  at  that  time. 
"  Go  home  now,"  she  said,  in  tones  of  deep  despon 
dency.  "  To-morrow  I  will  tell  thee  all.  I  have  had 
many  unhappy  hours  ;  for  I  have  long  felt  that  I  ought 
to  tell  thee  all  my  past  history ;  but  I  was  afraid  to  do 


HILDA    SILFVEKLING.  233 

it,  for  I  thought  them  wouldst  not  love  me  any  more ; 
and  that  would  be  worse  than  death.  But  come  to 
morrow,  and  I  will  tell  thee  all." 

"  Well,  dearest  Hilda,  I  will  wait,"  replied  Alerik ; 
"  but  what  my  grandmother,  who  died  long  before  I 
was  born,  can  have  to  do  with  my  love  for  thee,  is 
more  than  I  can  imagine." 

The  next  day,  when  Hilda  saw  Alerik  coming  to 
claim  the  fulfilment  of  her  promise,  it  seemed  almost 
like  her  death-warrant.  "  He  will  not  love  me  any 
more,"  thought  she,  "  he  will  never  again  look  at  me 
so  tenderly ;  and  then  what  can  I  do,  but  die  ?" 

With  much  embarrassment,  and  many  delays,  she 
at  last  began  her  strange  story.  He  listened  to  the 
first  part  very  attentively,  and  with  a  gathering  frown ; 
but  as  she  went  on,  the  muscles  of  his  face  relaxed 
into  a  smile ;  and  when  she  ended  by  saying,  with  the 
most  melancholy  seriousness,  "  So  thou  seest,  dear 
Alerik,  we  cannot  be  married  ;  because  it  is  very  likely 
that  I  am  thy  great-grandmother" — he  burst  into  im 
moderate  peals  of  laughter. 

When  his  mirth  had  somewhat  subsided,  he  replied, 
"  Likely  as  not  thou  art  my  great-grandmother,  dear 
Hilda ;  and  just  as  likely  I  was  thy  grandfather,  in 
the  first  place.  A  great  German  scholar*  teaches 
that  our  souls  keep  coining  back  again  and  again  into 
new  bodies.  An  old  Greek  philosopher  is  said  to 
have  corne  back  for  the  fourth  time,  under  the  name' 
of  Pythagoras.  If  these  things  are  so,  how  the  deuce 
is  a  man  ever  to  tell  whether  he  marries  his  grand 
mother  or  not  ?" 

*  Leasing. 

20* 


234  HILDA    SILFVERLING. 

"  But,  dearest  Alerik,  I  am  not  jesting,"  rejoined 
she.  "  What  I  have  told  thee  is  really  true.  They 
did  put  me  to  sleep  for  a  hundred  years." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  answered  he,  laughing,  "  I  remember 
reading  about  it  in  the  Swedish  papers  ;  and  I  thought 
it  a  capital  joke.  I  will  tell  thee  how  it  is  with  thee, 
my  precious  one.  The  elves  sometimes  seize  people, 
to  carry  them  down  into  their  subterranean  caves ; 
but  if  the  mortals  run  away  from  them,  they,  out  of 
spite,  forever  after  fill  their  heads  with  gloomy  insane 
notions.  A  man  in  Drontheim  ran  away  from  them, 
and  they  made  him  believe  he  was  an  earthen  coffee 
pot.  He  sat  curled  up  in  a  corner  all  the  time,  for 
fear  somebody  would  break  his  nose  off." 

"  Nay,  now  thou  art  joking,  Alerik ;  but  really  " — 

"  No,  I  tell  thee,  as  thou  hast  told  me,  it  was  no 
joke  at  all,"  he  replied.  "  The  man  himself  told  me 
he  was  a  coffee-pot." 

"  But  be  serious,  Alerik,"  said  she,  "  and  tell  me, 
dost  thou  not  believe  that  some  learned  men  can  put 
people  to  sleep  for  a  hundred  years  ?" 

'•  J  don't  doubt  some  of  my  college  professors  could," 
rejoined  he  ;  "  provided  their  tongues  could  hold  out 
so  long." 

"  But,  Alerik,  dost  thou  not  think  it  possible  that 
people  may  be  alive,  and  yet  not  alive  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  he  replied  ;  "  the  greater  part  of 
the  world  are  in  that  condition." 

"  Oh,  Alerik,  what  a  tease  thou  art !  I  mean,  is  it 
not  possible  that  there  are  people  now  living,  or  stay 
ing  somewhere,  who  were  moving  about  on  this  earth 
ages  ago  ?" 


HILDA    S1LFVERLING.  235 

"  Nothing  more  likely,"  answered  he ;  "  for  instance, 
who  knows  what  people  there  may  be  under  the  ice- 
sea  of  Folgefond  ?  They  say  the  cocks  are  heard 
crowing  down  there,  to  this  day.  How  a  fowl  of  any 
feather  got  there  is  a  curious  question  ;  and  what 
kind  of  atmosphere  he  has  to  crow  in,  is  another  puz 
zle.  Perhaps  they  are  poor  ghosts,  without  sense  of 
shame,  crowing  over  the  recollections  of  sins  commit 
ted  in  the  human  body.  The  ancient  Egyptians 
thought  the  soul  was  obliged  to  live  three  thousand 
years,  in  a  succession  of  different  animals,  before  it  could 
attain  to  the  regions  of  the  blest.  I  am  pretty  sure  I 
have  already  been  a  lion  and  a  nightingale.  What  I 
shall  be  next,  the  Egyptians  know  as  well  as  I  do.  One 
of  their  sculptors  made  a  stone  image,  half  woman  and 
half  lioness.  Doubtless  his  mother  had  been  a  lioness, 
and  had  transmitted  to  him  some  dim  recollection  of 
it.  But  I  am  glad,  dearest,  they  sent  thee  back  in 
the  form  of  a  lovely  maiden  ;  for  if  thou  hadst  come 
as  a  wolf,  I  might  have  shot  thee  ;  and  I  shouldn't 
like  to  shoot  my — great-grandmother.  Or  if  thou 
hadst  come  as  a  red  herring,  Father  Hansen  might 
have  eaten  thee  in  his  soup  ;  and  then  I  should  have 
had  no  Hilda  Silfverling." 

Hilda  smiled,  as  she  said,  half  reproachfully,  "  I 
see  well  that  thou  dost  not  believe  one  word  I  say." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  do,  dearest,"  rejoined  he,  very  seriously. 
"  I  have  no  doubt  the  fairies  carried  thee  off  some 
summer's  night  and  made  thee  verily  believe  thou 
hadst  slept  for  a  hundred  years.  They  do  the  strang 
est  things.  Sometimes  they  change  babies  in  the 
cradle  ;  leave  an  imp,  and  carry  off  the  human  to  the 


36  HILDA    SILFVERL1NG. 

metal  mines,  where  he  hears  only  clink  !  clink ! 
Then  the  fairies  bring  him  back,  and  put  him  in  some 
other  cradle.  When  he  grows  up,  how  he  does  hurry 
skurry  after  the  silver  !  He  is  obliged  to  work  all  his 
life,  as  if  the  devil  drove  him.  The  poor  miser  never 
knows  what  is  the  matter  with  him  ;  but  it  is  all  be 
cause  the  gnomes  brought  him  up  in  the  mines,  and 
he  could  never  get  the  clink  out  of  his  head.  A  more 
poetic  kind  of  fairies  sometimes  carry  a  babe  to  JEolian. 
caves,  full  of  wild  dreamy  sounds  ;  and  when  he  is 
brought  back  to  upper  earth,  ghosts  of  sweet  echoes 
keep  beating  time  in  some  corner  of  his  brain,  to 
something  which  they  hear,  but  which  nobody  else  is 
the  wiser  for.  I  know  that  is  true  ;  for  I  was  brought 
up  in  those  caves  myself." 

Hilda  remained  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  as  he  sat 
looking  in  her  face  with  comic  gravity.  "  Thou  wilt 
do  nothing  but  make  fun  of  me,"  at  last  she  said.  "  I 
do  wish  I  could  persuade  thee  to  be  serious.  What  I 
told  thee  was  no  fairy  story.  It  really  happened.  I 
remember  it  as  distinctly  as  I  do  our  sail  round  the 
islands  yesterday.  I  seem  to  see  that  great  bear  now, 
with  his  paws  folded  up,  on  the  shelf  opposite  to  me." 

"  He  must  have  heen  a  great  bear  to  have  staid 
there,"  replied  Alerik,  with  eyes  full  of  roguery.  "  If 
I  had  been  in  his  skin,  may  I  be  shot  if  all  the  drugs 
and  gasses  in  the  world  would  have  kept  me  there, 
with  my  paws  folded  on  my  breast." 

Seeing  a  slight  blush  pass  over  her  cheek,  he  ad 
ded,  more  seriously,  "  After  all,  I  ought  to  thank  that 
wicked  elf,  whoever  he  was,  for  turning  thee  into  a 
stone  image ;  for  otherwise  thou  wouldst  have  been 


HILDA    SlLi'VERLING.  237 

in  the  world  a  hundred  years  too  soon  for  me,  and  so 
I  should  have  missed  rny  life's  best  blossom." 

Feeling  her  tsars  on  his  hand,  he  again  started  off 
into  a  vein  of  merriment.  "  Thy  case  was  not  so  very 
peculiar,"  said  he.  "  There  was  a  Gresk  lady,  named 
Niobe,  who  was  changed  to  stone.  The  Greek  gods 
changed  women  into  trees,  and  fountains,  and  all 
manner  of  things.  A  man  couldn't  chop  a  walking- 
stick  in  those  days,  without  danger  of  cutting  off  some 
lady's  finger.  The  tree  might  be — his  great-grand 
mother  ;  and  she  of  course  would  take  it  very  un 
kindly  of  him." 

"  All  these  things  are  like  the  stories  about  Odin 
and  Frigga,"  rejoined  Hilda.  "  They  are  not  true, 
like  the  Christian  religion.  When  I  tell  thee  a  true 
story,  why  dost  thou  always  meet  me  with  fairies  and 
fictions  ?" 

"  But  tell  me,  best  Hilda,"  said  he,  "  what  the 
Christian  religion  has  to  do  with  penning  up  young 
maidens  with  bears  and  crocodiles  ?  In  its  marriage 
ceremonies,  I  grant  that  it  sometimes  does  things  not 
very  unlike  that,  only  omitting  the  important  part 
of  freezing  the  maiden's  heart.  But  since  thou  hast 
mentioned  the  Christian  religion,  I  may  as  well  give 
thee  a  bit  of  consolation  from  that  quarter.  I  have 
read  in  my  mother's  big  Bible,  that  a  man  must  not 
marry  his  grandmother  ;  but  I  do  not  remember  that 
it  said  a  single  word  against  his  marrying  his  great- 
grandmother." 

Hilda  laughed,  in  spite  of  herself.  But  after  a 
pause,  she  looked  at  him  earnestly,  and  said,  "  Dost 


238  HILDA    SILFVERLING. 

thou  indeed  think  there  would  be  no  harm  in  marrying, 
under  these  circumstances,  if  I  were  really  thy  great- 
grandmother  ?  Is  it  thy  earnest  ?  Do  be  serious  for 
once,  dear  Alerik  !" 

"  Certainly  there  would  be  no  harm,"  answered  he. 
"  Physicians  have  agreed  that  the  body  changes  en 
tirely  once  in  seven  years.  That  must  be  because  the 
soul  outgrows  its  clothes  ;  which  proves  that  the  soul 
changes  every  seven  years,  also.  Therefore,  in  the 
course  of  one  hundred  years,  thou  must  have  had 
fourteen  complete  changes  of  soul  and  body.  It  is 
therefore  as  plain  as  daylight,  that  if  thou  wert  my 
great-grandmother  when  thou  fell  asleep,  thou  couldst 
not  have  been  my  great-grandmother  when  they 
waked  thee  up." 

"  Ah,  Alerik,"  she  replied,  "  it  is  as  the  good  Bren- 
da  says,  there  is  no  use  in  talking  with  thee.  One 
might  as  well  try  to  twist  a  string  that  is  not  fastened 
at  either  end." 

He  looked  up  merrily  in  her  face.  The  wind  was 
playing  with  her  ringlets,  and  freshened  the  colour  on 
her  cheeks.  "  I  only  wish  I  had  a  mirror  to  hold 
before  thee,"  said  he  ;  "  that  thou  couldst  see  how  very 
like  thou  art  to  a — great  grandmother." 

"  Laugh  at  me  as  thou  wilt,"  answered  she  ;  "  but 
I  assure  thee  I  have  strange  thoughts  about  myself 
sometimes.  Dost  thou  know,"  added  she,  almost  in  a 
whisper,  "  I  am  not  always  quite  certain  that  I  have 
not  died,  and  am  now  in  heaven  ?" 

A  ringing  shout  of  laughter  burst  from  the  light- 
hearted  lover.  "Oh,  I  like  that!  I  like  that!"  ex- 


HILDA    SILFVERLING.  239 

claimed  he.  "  That  is  good  !  That  a  Swede  coming 
to  Norway  does  not  know  certainly  whether  she  is  in 
heaven  or  not." 

"  Do  be  serious,  Alerik,"  said  she  imploringly. 
"  Don't  carry  thy  jests  too  far." 

"  Serious  ?  I  am  serious.  If  Norway  is  not  heaven, 
one  sees  plainly  enough  that  it  must  have  been  the 
scaling  place,  where  the  old  giants  got  up  to  heaven  ; 
for  they  have  left  their  ladders  standing.  Where 
else  wilt  thou  find  clusters  of  mountains  running  up 
perpendicularly  thousands  of  feet  right  into  the  sky  ? 
If  thou  wast  to  see  some  of  them,  thou  couldst  tell 
whether  Norway  is  a  good  climbing  place  into  heaven." 

"  Ah,  dearest  Alerik,  thou  hast  taught  me  that  al 
ready,"  she  replied,  with  a  glance  full  of  affection ; 
"  so  a  truce  with  thy  joking.  Truly  one  never  knows 
how  to  take  thee.  Thy  talk  sets  everything  in  the 
world,  and  above  it,  and  below  it,  dancing  together  in 
the  strangest  fashion." 

"  Because  they  all  do  dance  together,"  rejoined  the 
perverse  man. 

"  Oh,  be  done  !  be  done,  Alerik  !"  she  said,  putting 
her  hand  playfully  over  his  mouth.  "  Thou  wilt  tie 
my  poor  brain  all  up  into  knots." 

He  seized  her  hand  and  kissed  it,  then  busied  him 
self  with  braiding  the  wild  spring  flowers  into  a  gar 
land  for  her  fair  hair.  As  she  gazed  on  him  earnestly, 
her  eyes  beaming  with  love  and  happiness,  he  drew 
her  to  his  breast,  and  exclaimed  fervently,  "  Oh,  thou 
art  beautiful  as  an  angel ;  and  here  or  elsewhere,  with 
thee  by  my  side,  it  seemeth  heaven." 

They  spoke  no  more  for  a  long  time.     The  birds 


240  HILDA    SILFVERLING. 

now  and  then  serenaded  the  silent  lovers  with  little 
twittering  gushes  of  song.  The  setting  sun,  as  he 
went  away  over  the  hills,  threw  diamonds  on  the  bay, 
and  a  rainbow  ribbon  across  the  distant  waterfall. 
Their  hearts  were  in  harmony  with  the  peaceful 
beauty  of  Nature.  As  he  kissed  her  drowsy  eyes, 
she  murmured,  "  Oh,  it  was  well  worth  a  hundred 
years  with  bears  and  crocodiles,  to  fall  asleep  thus  on 
thy  heart." 

***** 

The  next  autumn,  a  year  and  a  half  after  Hilda's 
arrival  in  Norway,  there  was  another  procession  of 
boats,  with  banners,  music  and  garlands.  The  little 
church  was  again  decorated  with  evergreens  ;  but  no 
clarinet  players  stood  at  the  door  to  annoy  good  Father 
Hansen.  The  worthy  man  had  in  fact  taken  the  hint, 
though  somewhat  reluctantly,  and  had  good-naturedly 
ceased  to  disturb  modern  ears  with  his  clamorous 
vociferation  of  the  hymns.  He  and  his  kind-hearted 
Brenda  were  happy  beyond  measure  at  Hilda's  good 
fortune.  But  when  she  told  her  husband  anything 
he  did  not  choose  to  believe,  they  could  never  rightly 
make  out  what  he  meant  by  looking  at  her  so  slily, 
and  saying,  "  Pooh  !  Pooh  !  tell  that  to  my great- 
grandmother." 


ROSENGLORY. 

A  stranger  among  strange  faces,  she  drinketh  the  wormwood  of  dependence ; 

She  is  marked  as  a  child  of  want ;  and  the  worid  hateth  poverty. 

She  is  cared  for  by  none  upon  earth,  and  her  G^d  seemeth  to  forsake  her. 

Then  cometh,  in  fair  show,  the  promise  and  the  feint  of  affection ; 

And  her  heart,  long  unused  to  kindness,  remembereth  her  brother,  and  loveth ; 

And  the  traitor  hath  wronged  her  trust,  and  mocked  and  flung  her  from  him ; 

And  men  point  at  her  and  laugh,  and  women  hate  her  as  an  outcast ; 

But  elsewhere,  far  other  judgment  may  seat  her  among  the  martyrs. 

Proverbial  Philosophy. 

Oh,  moralists,  who  treat  of  happiness  and  self-respect  in  every  sphere  of 
life,  go  into  the  squalid  depths  of  deepest  ignorance,  the  uttermost  abyss  of 
man's  neglect,  and  say  can  any  hopeful  plant  spring  up  in  air  so  foul  that  it 
extinguishes  the  s.jul's  bright  torch  as  soon  as  it  is  kindled  ?  Oh,  ye  Phari 
sees  of  the  nineteen  hundredth  year  of  Christian  knowledge,  who  soundingly 
appeal  to  human  nature,  see  that  it  be,  human  first.  Take  heed  that  during 
your  slumber,  and  the  sleep  of  generations,  it  has  not  been  transformed  into 
the  nature  of  the  beasts. — Dickens. 

JERRY  GRAY  and  his  sister  Susan  were  the  children 
of  a  drunken  father,  and  of  a  poor  woman,  who  saved 
them  from  starvation  by  picking  up  rags  in  the  street, 
and  washing  them  for  the  paper-makers.  In  youth, 
she  had  been  a  rustic  belle,  observable  for  her  neat 
and  tasteful  attire.  But  she  was  a  weak,  yielding 
character ;  and  sickness,  poverty,  and  toil,  gradually 
broke  down  the  little  energy  with  which  nature  had 
endowed  her.  "  What's  the  use  of  patching  up  my 
old  rags?"  she  used  to  say  to  herself;  "there's  no 
body  now  to  mind  how  I  look."  But  she  had  a  kind, 
affectionate  heart ;  and  love  for  her  children  preserved 
her  from  intemperance,  and  sustained  her  in  toiling 
for  their  daily  bread. 
21 

* 


242  ROSENGLORY. 

The  delight  she  took  in  curling  her  little  daughter's 
glossy  brown  ringlets  was  the  only  remaining  indica 
tion  of  early  coquetish  taste.  Though  often  dirty 
and  ragged  herself,  Susan  was  always  clean  and  tidy. 
She  was,  in  fact,  an  extremely  lovely  child  ;  and  as 
she  toddled  through  the  streets,  holding  by  her  moth 
er's  skirts,  Napoleon  himself  could  not  have  been 
more  proud  of  popular  homage  to  his  little  King  of 
Rome,  than  was  the  poor  rag-woman  of  the  smiles 
and  kisses  bestowed  on  her  pretty  one.  Her  large 
chestnut-coloured  eyes  had  been  saddened  in  their 
expression  by  the  sorrows  and  privations  of  her 
mother,  when  the  same  life-blood  sustained  them 
both  ;  but  they  were  very  beautiful ;  and  their  long 
dark  fringes  rested  on  cheeks  as  richly  coloured  as  a 
peach  fully  ripened  in  the  sunshine.  Like  her  moth 
er,  she  had  a  very  moderate  share  of  intellect,  and 
an  extreme  love  of  pretty  things.  It  was  a  gleam  in 
their  souls  of  that  intense  love  of  the  beautiful,  which 
makes  poets  and  artists  of  higher  natures,  under  more 
favourable  circumstances. 

A  washerwoman,  who  lived  in  the  next  room, 
planted  a  Morning-Glory  seed  in  a  broken  tea-pot ; 
and  it  bore  its  first  blossom  the  day  Susan  was  three 
years  old.  The  sight  of  it  filled  her  with  passionate 
joy.  She  danced,  and  clapped  her  hands  ;  she  re 
turned  to  it  again  and  again,  and  remained  a  long 
time  stooping  down,  and  looking  into  the  very  heart 
of  the  flower.  When  it  closed,  she  called  out,  impa 
tiently,  "  Wake  up  !  wake  up,  pretty  posy  !"  When 
it  shrivelled  more  and  more,  she  cried  aloud,  and  re 
fused  to  be  comforted.  As  successive  blossoms  open- 


ROSENGLORY.  243 

ed  day  by  day,  her  friendship  for  the  vine  increased, 
and  the  conversations  she  held  with  it  were  some 
times  quite  poetic,  in  her  small  way. 

One  day,  when  her  mother  was  hooking  up  rags 
from  the  dirty  gutters  of  the  street,  with  the  little 
ones  trudging  behind  her,  a  gentleman  passed  with  a 
large  bouquet  in  his  hand.  Susan's  eyes  brightened, 
as  she  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  mammy,  look  at  the  pretty 
posies  !" 

The  gentleman  smiled  upon  her  and  said,  "  Would 
you  like  one,  my  little  girl  ?" 

She  eagerly  held  out  her  hand,  and  he  gave  her  a 
flower,  saying,  "  There's  a  rose  for  you." 

"  Thank  the  good  gentleman,"  said  her  mother. 
But  she  was  too  much  occupied  to  attend  to  polite 
ness.  Her  head  was  full  of  her  pet  Morning-Glory, 
the  first  blossom  she  had  ever  looked  upon  ;  and  she 
ran  to  her  brother  shouting  joyfully,  "  See  my  Rosen- 
glory  !" 

The  gentleman  laughed,  patted  her  silky  curls, 
and  said,  "  You  are  a  little  Rosenglory  yourself;  and 
I  wish  you  were  mine." 

Jerry,  who  was  older  by  two  years,  was  quite 
charmed  with  the  word.  "  Rosenglory,"  repeated 
he  ;  "  what  a  funny  name  !  Mammy,  the  gentle 
man  called  our  Susy  a  Rosenglory." 

From  that  day,  it  became  a  favourite  word  in  the 
wretched  little  household.  It  sounded  there  with 
mournful  beauty,  like  the  few  golden  rays  which  at 
sunset  fell  aslant  the  dingy  walls  and  the  broken 
crockery.  When  the  weary  mother  had  washed  her 


244  ROSENGLORY. 

basket  of  rags,  she  would  bring  water  for  Susan's 
hands,  and  a  wooden  comb  to  smooth  her  hair,  and 
gazing  fondly  in  that  infant  face,  her  only  vision  of 
beauty  in  a  life  otherwise  all  dark  and  dreary,  she 
would  say,  "  Now  kiss  your  poor  mammy,  my  little 
Rosenglory."  Even  the  miserable  father,  when  his 
sense's  were  not  stupified  with  drink,  would  take  the 
pretty  little  one  on  his  knee,  twine  her  shining  ring 
lets  round  his  coarse  fingers,  and  sigh  deeply  as  he 
said,  "  Ah,  how  many  a  rich  man  would  be  proud  to 
have  my  little  Rosenglory  for  his  own  !" 

But  it  was  brother  Jerry  who  idolized  her  most  of 
all.  He  could  not  go  to  bed  on  his  little  bunch  of 
straw,  unless  her  curly  head  was  nestled  on  his 
bosom.  They  trudged  the  streets  together,  hand  in 
hand,  and  if  charity  offered  them  an  apple  or  a  slice 
of  bread,  the  best  half  was  always  reserved  for  her. 
A  proud  boy  was  he  when  he  received  an  old  tatter 
demalion  rocking-horse  from  the  son  of  a  gentleman, 
for  whom  his  father  was  sawing  wood.  "  Now  Ro 
senglory  shall  ride,"  said  he  ;  and  when  he  placed 
her  on  the  horse,  and  watched  her  swinging  back 
and  forth,  his  merry  shouts  of  laughter  indicated 
infinite  satisfaction.  But  these  pleasant  scenes  oc 
curred  but  seldom.  More  frequently,  they  came 
home  late  and  tired,  every  body  was  hungry  and 
cross,  and  they  were  glad  to  steal  away  in  silence  to 
their  little  bed.  When  the  father  was  noisy  in  his 
intoxication,  the  poor  boy  guarded  his  darling  with 
the  thoughtfulness  of  maturer  years.  He  patiently 
warded  off  the  random  blows,  or  received  them  him- 


ROSENGLORY.  245 

self ;  and  if  harm  accidentally  came  to  her,  it  was  af 
fecting  to  see  his  tearful  eyes,  and  hear  his  grieved 
whisper,  "  Mammy  !  he  struck  Rosenglory  !" 

Poor  child  !  her  young  life  was  opening  in  dark 
and  narrow  places ;  though,  like  the  vine  in  the 
broken  tea-pot,  she  caught  now  and  then  a  transient 
gleam  of  sunshine.  It  would  be  well  if  men  could 
spare  time  from  the  din  of  theological  dispute,  and 
the  drowsiness  of  devotional  routine,  to  reflect  wheth 
er  such  ought  to  be  the  portion  of  any  of  God's  little 
ones,  in  this  broad  and  beautiful  earth,  which  He 
created  for  the  good  of  all. 

Many  a  hungry  day,  and  many  a  night  of  pinching 
cold,  this  brother  and  sister  went  struggling  through 
their  blighted  youth,  till  the  younger  was  eight  years 
old.  At  that  period,  the  father  died  of  delirium  tre- 
mens,  and  the  mother  fell  into  a  consumption,  brought 
on  by  constant  hardship  and  unvarying  gloom.  The 
family  were  removed  to  the  almshouse,  and  found  it 
an  improvement  in  their  condition.  The  coarse  food 
was  as  good  as  that  to  which  they  had  been  accus 
tomed,  there  was  more  air  and  a  wider  scope  for  the 
eye  to  range  in.  Blessed  with  youthful  impressibility 
to  the  bright  and  joyous,  Jerry  and  Susan  took  more 
notice  of  the  clear  silvery  moon  and  the  host  of 
bright  stars,  than  they  did  of  the  deformity,  paleness, 
and  sad  looks  around  them.  The  angels  watch  over 
childhood,  and  keep  it  from  understanding  the  evil 
that  surrounds  it,  or  retaining  the  gloom  which  is  its 
shadow. 

The  poor  weak  mother  was  daily  wasting  away, 
but  they  only  felt  that  her  tones  were  more  tender, 
21* 


246  ROSENGLORY. 

her  endearments  more  fond.  One  night,  when  they 
were  going  to  bed,  she  held  them  by  the  hand  longer 
than  usual.  The  rough  hireling  nurse  felt  the  elo 
quence  of  her  sad  countenance,  and  had  not  the  heart 
to  hurry  them  away.  No  one  knew  what  deep 
thought,  what  agony  of  anxious  love,  was  in  the  soul 
of  the  dying  one  ;  but  she  gazed  earnestly  and  tear 
fully  into  their  clear  young  eyes,  and  said,  with  a 
troubled  voice,  "  My  children,  try  to  be  good."  She 
kissed  them  fervently,  and  spoke  no  more.  The  next 
day,-  the  nurse  told  them  their  mother  was  dead. 
They  saw  her  body  laid  in  a  white  pine  coffin,  and 
carried  away  in  a  cart  to  the  burying  ground  of  the 
poor.  It  was  piled  upon  a  hundred  other  nameless 
coffins,  in  a  big  hole  dug  in  the  sandy  hill  side.  She 
was  not  missed  from  the  jostling  crowd  ;  but  the  or 
phans  wept  bitterly,  for  she  was  all  the  world  to  them. 

In  a  few  days,  strangers  came  to  examine  them, 
with  a  view  to  take  them  into  service.  Jerry  was 
bound  to  a  sea-captain,  and  Susan  to  a  grocer's  wife, 
who  wanted  her  to  wait  upon  the  children.  She  was, 
indeed,  bound;  for  Mrs.  Andrews  was  entirely  forget 
ful  that  anything  like  freedom  or  enjoyment  might  be 
necessary  or  useful  to  servants.  All  day  long  she 
lugged  the  heavy  baby,  and  often  sat  up  late  at  night, 
to  pacify  its  fretfulness  as  she  best  could,  while  her 
master  and  mistress  were  at  balls,  or  the  Bowery. 
While  the  babe  was  sleeping,  she  was  required  to 
scour  knives,  or  scrub  the  pavement.  No  one  talked 
to  her,  except  to  say,  "Susy  do  this ;"  or  "  Susy,  why 
didn't  you  do  as  I  bade  you  ?" 

Now  and  then  she  had  a  visit  from  Jerry,  when  his 


*- 

ROSEN  GLORY.  247 

master  was  in  port.  He  was  always  very  affectionate, 
and  longed  for  the  time  when  he  should  be  a  man, 
and  able  to  have  his  sister  live  with  him.  But  after  a 
few  years,  he  came  no  more  ;  and  as  neither  of  them 
could  write,  they  had  no  means  of  communication. 

When  Susan  grew  older,  and  there  were  no  more 
babes  to  tend,  she  was  mostly  confined  to  the  cellar 
kitchen,  from  which  she  looked  out  upon  stone  steps 
and  a  brick  wall.  Her  mistress  had  decided  objec 
tions  to  her  forming  acquaintances  in  the  neighbour 
hood,  and  for  several  years  the  young  girl  scarcely 
held  communion  with  any  human  being,  except  the 
old  cook.  Even  her  beauty  made  her  less  a  favour 
ite  ;  for  when  company  came  in,  it  was  by  no  means 
agreeable  to  Mrs.  Andrews  to  observe  that  the  servant 
attracted  more  attention  than  her  own  daughter.  Her 
husband  spent  very  little  of  his  time  at  home,  and 
when  there,  was  usually  asleep.  But  one  member  of 
the  family  was  soon  conscious  of  a  growing  interest 
in  the  orphan.  Master  Robert,  a  year  older  than  her 
self,  had  been  a  petulant,  over-indulged  boy,  and  was 
now  a  selfish,  pleasure-seeking  lad.  In  juvenile  days, 
he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  ordering  the  little  servant 
to  wash  his  dog,  and  of  scolding  at  her,  if  she  did  not 
black  his  shoes  to  his  liking.  But  as  human  nature 
developed  within  him,  his  manners  toward  her  grad 
ually  softened  ;  for  he  began  to  notice  that  she  was 
a  very  handsome  girl. 

Having  obtained  from  his  sister  a  promise  not  to 
reveal  that  he  had  said  anything,  he  represented  that 
Susy  ought  to  have  better  clothes,  and  be  allowed  to 
go  to  meeting  sometimes.  He  said  he  was  sure  the 


248  ROSENGLORY. 

neighbours  thought  she  was  very  meanly  clad,  and  he 
had  heard  that  their  servants  made  remarks  about  it. 
He  was  not  mistaken  in  supposing  that  his  mother 
would  be  influenced  by  such  arguments.  She  had 
never  thought  of  the  alms-house  child  in  any  other 
light  than  as  a  machine  for  her  convenience  ;  but  if 
the  neighbours  talked  about  her  meanness,  it  was  cer 
tainly  necessary  to  enlarge  Susy's  privileges.  In  an 
swer  to  her  curious  inquiries,  her  daughter  repeated 
that  Mrs.  Jones's  girl  had  said  so  and  so,  and  that 
Mrs.  Smith,  at  the  next  door,  had  made  a  similar  re 
mark  to  Mrs.  Dickson.  Whether  this  gossip  was.  or 
was  not,  invented  by  Robert,  it  had  the  effect  he  de 
sired. 

Susan,  now  nearly  sixteen  years  of  age,  obtained 
a  better  dress  than  she  had  ever  before  possessed,  and 
\vas  occasionally  allowed  to  go  to  meeting  on  Sunday 
afternoon.  As  Mrs.  Andrews  belonged  to  a  very  gen 
teel  church,  she  could  not,  of  course,  take  a  servant 
girl  with  her.  But  the  cook  went  to  a  Methodist 
meeting,  where  "  the  poor  had  the  gospel  preached  to 
them,"  and  there  a  seat  was  hired  for  Susan  also. 
Master  Robert  suddenly  became  devotional,  and  was 
often  seen  at  the  same  meeting.  He  had  no  delibe 
rately  bad  intentions ;  but  he  was  thoughtless  by  na 
ture,  and  selfish  by  education.  He  found  pleasant 
excitement  in  watching  his  increasing  power  over  the 
young  girl's  feelings ;  and  sometimes,  when  he  que 
ried  within  himself  whether  he  was  doing  right  to 
gain  her  affections,  and  what  would  come  of  it  all,  he 
had  floating  visions  that  he  might  possibly  educate 
Susan,  and  make  her  his  wife.  These  very  vague 


ROSENGLORY.  249 

ideas  he  impressed  so  definitely  on  the  mind  of  the 
old  cook,  aided  by  occasional  presents,  that  she  prom 
ised  to  tell  no  tales.  Week  after  week,  the  lovers  sat 
together  in  the  same  pew,  and  sang  from  the  same 
hymn-book.  Then  came  meetings  after  the  family 
had  retired  to  rest,  to  which  secresy  gave  an  addition 
al  charm.  The  concealment  was  the  only  thing  that 
troubled  Susan  with  a  consciousness  of  wrong;  and 
he  easily  persuaded  her  that  this  was  a  duty,  in  order 
to  screen  him  from  blame.  "  Was  it  his  fault  that  he 
loved  her?"  he  asked;  "he  was  sure  he  could  not 
help  it." 

She,  on  her  part,  could  not  help  loving  him  deeply 
and  fervently.  He  was  very  handsome,  and  she  de 
lighted  in  his  beauty,  as  naturally  as  she  had  done  in 
the  flower,  when  her  heart  leaped  up  and  called  it  a 
Rosenglory.  Since  her  brother  went  away,  there  was 
no  other  human  bosom  on  which  she  could  rest  her 
weary  head ;  no  other  lips  spoke  lovingly  to  her,  no 
other  eye-beams  sent  warmth  into  her  soul.  If  the 
gay,  the  prosperous,  and  the  flattered  find  it  pleasant 
to  be  loved,  how  much  more  so  must  it  be  to  one 
whose  life  from  infancy  had  been  so  darkened  ?  So 
ciety  reflects  its  own  pollution  on  "feelings  which  na 
ture  made  beautiful,  and  does  cruel  injustice  to  youth 
ful  hearts  by  the  grossness  of  its  interpretations.  Thus 
it  fared  with  poor  Susan.  Late  one  summer's  night, 
she  and  Robert  were  sitti-ng  by  the  open  window  of 
the  breakfast-room.  All  was  still  in  the  streets ;  the 
light  of  the  moon  shone  mildly  on  them,  and  hushed 
their  souls  into  auiet  happiness.  The  thoughtless 


250  KOSENGLORY. 

head  of  sixteen  rested  on  the  impressible  heart  of 
seventeen,  and  thus  they  fell  asleep. 

Mrs.  Andrews  had  occasion  for  some  camphor,  in 
the  course  of  the  night,  and  it  chanced  to  be  in  the 
closet  of  that  room.  When  she  entered  in  search  of 
it,  she  started  back,  as  if  she  had  heard  the.  report  of 
a  pistol.  No  suspicion  of  the  existing  state  of  things 
had  ever  crossed  her  mind  ;  and  now  that  she  discov 
ered  it,  it  never  occurred  to  her  that  she  herself  was 
much  to  blame.  Her  own  example,  and  incidental 
remarks  not  intended  as  education,  but  which  in  fact 
were  so,  had  taught  her  son  that  the  world  was  made 
for  him  to  get  as  much  pleasure  in  as  possible,  with 
out  reference  to  the  good  of  others.  She  had  caution 
ed  him  against  the  liability  of  being  cheated  in  money 
matters,  and  had  instructed  him  how  to  make  the 
cheapest  bargains,  in  the  purchase  of  clothing  or 
amusement ;  but  against  the  most  inevitable  and  most 
insidious  temptations  of  his  life,  he  had  received  no 
warning.  The  sermons  he  heard  were  about  publi 
cans  and  pharisees,  who  lived  eighteen  hundred  years 
ago;  none  of  them  met  the  wants  of  his  own  life,  none 
of  them  interpreted  the  secrets  of  his  own  heart,  or 
revealed  the  rational  laws  of  the  senses. 

As  for  Susan,  the  little  fish,  floated  along  by  the 
tide,  were  not  more  ignorant  of  hydrostatics,  than  she 
was  of  the  hidden  dangers  and  social  regulations,  in 
the  midst  of  which  she  lived.  Robert's  love  had 
bloomed  in  her  dreary  monotonous  life,  like  the  Mor- 
ning-Glory  in  the  dark  dismal  court ;  and  she  wel 
comed  it,  and  gazed  into  it,  and  rejoiced  in  it,  much 
after  the  same  fashion. 


ROSENGLORY.  251 

*  All  these  thoughts  were,  however,  foreign  to  the 
mind  of  Mrs.  Andrews.  She  judged  the  young 
couple  as  if  they  had  her  experience  of  forty  years, 
and  were  encased  in  her  own  hard  crust  of  worldly 
wisdom.  The  dilemma  would  have  been  a  trying 
one,  even  fora  sensible  and  judicious  mother;  and 
the  management  of  it  required  candour  and  delicacy 
altogether  beyond  her  shallow  understanding  and  ar 
tificial  views.  She  wakened  them  from  their  dream 
with  a  storm  of  indignation.  Her  exaggerated  state 
ments  were  in  no  degree  adapted  to  the  real  measure 
of  wrong  doing,  and  therefore,  instead  of  producing 
humility  and  sorrow,  they  roused  resentment  against 
what  was  felt  to  be  unjust  accusation.  The  poor 
heedless  neglected  child  of  poverty  was  treated  as  if 
she  were  already  hardened  in  depravity.  No  names 
were  too  base  to  be  bestowed  upon  her.  As  the  an 
gry  mistress  drove  her  to  her  garret,  the  concluding 
words  were,  "  You  ungrateful,  good-for-nothing  hussy, 
that  I  took  out  of  the  alms-house  from  charity  !  You 
vile  creature,  you,  thus  to  reward  all  my  kindness  by 
trying  to  ruin  and  seduce  my  only  son  !" 

This  was  reversing  matters  strangely.  Susan  was 
sorely  tempted  to  ask  for  what  kindness  she  was  ex 
pected  to  be  grateful ;  but  she  did  not.  She  was 
ashamed  of  having  practised  concealment,  as  every 
generous  nature  is  ;  but  this  feeling  of  self-reproach 
was  overpowered  by  a  consciousness  that  she  did  not 
deserve  the  epithets  bestowed  upon  her,  and  she 
timidly  said  so.  "  Hold  your  tongue,"  replied  Mrs. 
Andrews.  "  Leave  my  house  to-morrow  morning, 
and  never  let  me  see  you  again.  I  always  expected 


252  ROSENGLORY. 

you'd  come  to  some  bad  end,  since  that  fool  of  a  paint 
er  came  here  and  asked  to  take  your  likeness,  sweep 
ing  the  side-walk.  This  comes  of  setting  people  up 
above  their  condition." 

After  talking  the  matter  over  with  her  husband, 
Mrs.  Andrews  concluded  to  remain  silent  about  Rob 
ert's  adventure,  to  send  him  forthwith  into  the  coun 
try,  to  his  uncle  the  minister,  and  recommend  Susan 
to  one  of  her  friends,  who  needed  a  servant,  and  had 
no  sons  to  be  endangered.  At  parting,  she  said,  "  I 
shall  take  away  the  cloak  I  gave  you  last  winter. 
The  time  for  which  you  were  bound  to  me  isn't  up  by 
two  years  ;  and  the  allowance  Mr.  Jenkins  makes  to 
me  isn't  enough  to  pay  for  my  disappointment  in 
losing  your  services  just  when  you  are  beginning  to 
be  useful,  after  all  the  trouble  and  expense  I  have  had 
with  you.  He  has  agreed  to  pay  you  every  month, 
enough  to  get  decent  clothing ;  and  that's  more  than 
you  deserve.  You  ought  to  be  thankful  to  me  for  all 
the  care  I  have  taken  of  you,  and  for  concealing  your 
bad  character ;  but  I've  done  expecting  any  such  thing 
as  gratitude  in  this  world."  The  poor  girl  wept,  but 
she  said  nothing.  She  did  not  know  what  to  say. 

No  fault  was  found  with  the  orphan  in  the  family 
of  Mr.  Jenkins,  the  alderman.  His  wife  said  she  was 
capable  and  industrious ;  and  he  himself  took  a  deci 
ded  fancy  to  her.  He  praised  her  cooking,  he  praised 
the  neatness  with  which  she  arranged  the  table,  and 
after  a  few  days,  he  began  to  praise  her  glossy  hair 
and  glowing  cheeks.  All  this  was  very  pleasant  to 
the  human  nature  of  the  young  girl.  She  thought  it 
was  very  kind  and  fatherly,  and  took  it  all  in  good 


ROSENGLORY.  253 

part.  She  made  her  best  courtesy  wnen  he  presented 
her  with  a  handsome  calico  gown ;  and  she  began  to 
think  "she  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  real  friends. 
But  when  he  chucked  her  under  the  chin,  and  said 
such  a  pretty  girl  ought  to  dress  well,  she  blushed 
and  was  confused  by  the  expression  of  his  counte 
nance,  though  she  was  too  ignorant  of  the  world  to 
understand  his  meaning.  But  his  demonstrations 
soon  became  too  open  to  admit  of  mistake,  and  ended 
with  offers  of  money.  She  heard  him  with  surprise 
and  distress.  To  sell  herself  without  her  affections, 
had  never  been  suggested  to  her  by  nature,  and  as  yet 
she  was  too  little  acquainted  with  the  refinements  of 
high  civilization,  to  acquire  familiarity  with  such  an 
idea. 

Deeming  it  best  to  fly  from  persecutions  which  she 
could  not  avoid,  she  told  Mrs.  Jenkins  that  she  found 
the  work  very  hard,  and  would  like  to  go  to  another 
place  as  soon  as  possible.  "  If  you  go  before  your 
month  is  up  I  shall  pay  you  no  wages,"  replied  the 
lady ;  "  but  you  may  go  if  you  choose."  In  vain  the 
poor  girl  represented  her  extreme  need  of  a  pair  of 
shoes.  The  lady  was  vexed  at  heart,  for  she  secretly 
suspected  the  cause  of  her  departure  ;  and  though  she 
could  not  in  justice  blarne  the  girl,  and  was  willing 
enough  that  she  should  go,  she  had  a  mind  to  punish 
her.  But  when  Susan,  to  defend  herself,  hinted  that 
she  had  good  reasons  for  wishing  to  leave,  she  brought 
a  storm  on  her  head,  at  once.  "  You  vain,  imperti 
nent  creature  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Jenkins,  "  because  my 
husband  gave  you  a  new  gown,  for  shame  of  the  old 
duds  you  brought  from  Mrs.  Andrews,  do  you  pre- 
22 


254  ROSENGLOEY. 

sume  to  insinuate  that  his  motives  were  not  honourable? 
And  he  a  gentleman  of  high  respectability,  an  alder 
man  of  the  city !  Leave  my  house  ;  the  sooner  the 
better  ;  but  don't  expect  a  cent  of  wages." 

Unfortunately,  a  purse  lay  on  the  work  table,  near 
which  Susan  was  standing.  She  had  no  idea  of 
stealing  ;  but  she  thought  to  herself,  "  Surely  I  have 
a  right  to  a  pair  of  shoes  for  my  three  weeks  of  hard 
labour."  She  carried  off  the  purse,  and  went  into  the 
service  of  a  neighbour,  who  had  expressed  a  wish  to 
hire.  That  very  evening  she  was  arrested,  and  was 
soon  after  tried  and  sentenced  to  BlackwelPs  Island. 
A  very  bold  and  bad  woman  was  sentenced  at  the 
same  time,  and  they  went  in  company.  From  her 
polluting  conversation  and  manners,  poor  Susan  re 
ceived  a  new  series  of  lessons  in  that  strange  course 
of  education,  which  a  Christian  community  had  from 
the  beginning  bestowed  upon  her.  Her  residence  on 
the  Island  rapidly  increased  her  stock  of  evil  knowl 
edge.  But  she  had  no  natural  tendencies  to  vice ; 
and  though  her  ideas  of  right  and  wrong  were  inevi 
tably  confused  by  the  social  whirlpool  into  which  she 
was  born,  she  still  wished  to  lead  a  decent  and  industri 
ous  life.  When  released  from  confinement,  she  tried 
to  procure  a  situation  at  service ;  but  she  had  no  ref 
erences  to  give,  except  Mrs.  Andrews  and  Mrs.  Jen 
kins.  When  she  called  a  second  time,  she  uniformly 
met  the  cold  reply,  "  I  hear  you  have  been  on  Black- 
well's  Island.  I  never  employ  people  who  have  lost 
their  character." 

From  the  last  of  these  attempts,  she  was  walking 
away  hungry  and  disconsolate,  doubtful  where  to  ob- 


ROSENGLORY.  255 

tain  shelter  for  the  night,  when  she  met  the  magistrate, 
who  had  sentenced  her  and  the  other  woman.  He 
spoke  to  her  kindly,  gave  her  a  quarter  of  a  dollar, 
and  asked  her  to  call  upon  him  that  evening.  At  part 
ing,  he  promised  to  be  a  friend  to  her,  if  she  behaved 
herself,  and  then  murmured  something  in  a  lower 
tone  of  voice.  What  were  his  ideas  of  behaving  her 
self  were  doubtless  implied  by  the  whisper ;  for  the 
girl  listened  with  such  a  smile  as  was  never  seen  on 
her  innocent  face,  before  he  sent  her  to  improve  her 
education  on  the  Island.  It  is  true  she  knew  very. 
little,  and  thought  still  less,  about  the  machinery  of 
laws,  and  regulations  for  social  protection ;  but  it  puz 
zled  her  poor  head,  as  it  does  many  a  wiser  one,  why 
men  should  be  magistrates,  when  they  practise  the 
same  things  for  which  they  send  women  to  Black- 
well's  Island.  She  had  never  read  or  heard  anything 
about  "  Woman's  Rights ;"  otherwise  it  might  have 
occurred  to  her  that  it  was  because  men  made  all  the 
laws,  and  elected  all  the  magistrates. 

The  possible  effect  of  magisterial  advice  and  pro 
tection  is  unknown  ;  for  she  did  not  accept  the  invita 
tion  to  call  that  evening.  As  she  walked  away  from 
the  tempter,  thinking  sadly  of  Robert  Andrews,  and 
her  dear  brother  Jerry,  she  happened  to  meet  the 
young  man  who  had  gained  her  first  youthful  love, 
unmixed  with  thoughts  of  evil.  With  many  tears, 
she  told  him  her  adventures  since  they  parted.  The 
account  kindled  his  indignation  and  excited  his  sym 
pathy  to  a  painful  degree.  Had  he  lived  in  a  true 
and  rational  state  of  society,  the  impulse  then  given 


256  ROSENGLORl. 

to  his  better  feelings  might  have  eventually  Braised  his 
nature  to  noble  unselfishness  and  manly  frankness. 
But  as  it  was,  he  fell  back  upon  deception  and  false 
pride.  He  hired  apartments  for  Susan,  and,  by  some 
pretence,  wheedled  his  mother  out  of  the  means  of 
paying  for  them.  Those  who  deem  the  poor  girl  un 
pardonable  for  consenting  to  this  arrangement,  would 
learn  mercy  if  they  were  placed  under  similar  circum 
stances  of  poverty,  scorn,  and  utter  loneliness. 
*  =fc  *  *  * 

Ten  years  passed  since  Jerry  last  parted  with  his 
blooming  sister,  then  fourteen  years  old.  He  had 
been  shipwrecked  twice,  and  returned  from  sea  in 
total  blindness,  caused  by  mismanagement  of  the  small 
pox.  He  gained  a  few  coppers  by  playing  a  clarinet 
in  the  street,  led  by  a  little  ragged  boy.  Everywhere 
he  inquired  for  his  sister,  but  no  one  could  give  him 
any  tidings  of  her.  One  day,  two  women  stopped  to 
listen,  and  one  of  them  put  a  shilling  into  the  boy's 
hand.  "  Why,  Susy,  what  possesses  you  to  give  so 
much  to  hear  that  old  cracked  pipe  ?"  said  one. 

"  He  looks  a  little  like  somebody  I  knew  when  1 
was  a  child,"  replied  the  other  ;  and  they  passed  on. 

The  voices  were  without  inflexions,  rough  and 
animal  in  tone,  indicating  that  the  speakers  led  a 
merely  sensual  existence.  The  piper  did  not  recog 
nise  either  of  them  ;  but  the  name  of  Susy  went 
through  his  heart,  like  a  sunbeam  through  November 
clouds.  Then  she  said  he  looked  like  somebody  she 
had  known  !  He  inquired  of  the  boy  whether  the 
woman  called  Susy  was  handsome. 


ROSENGLORY.  257 

He  replied,  "  No.  She  is  lean  and  pale ;  her 
cheek-bones  stand  out,  and  her  great  staring  dark 
eyes  look  crazy." 

The  blind  man  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  said, 
"  Let  us  walk  quick  and  follow  them."  They  did  go, 
but  lost  sight  of  the  women  at  the  turning  of  a  dirty 
alley.  For  six  weeks,  the  blind  piper  kept  watch  in 
the  neighbourhood,  obviously  a  very  bad  one.  In 
many  houses  he  inquired  if  any  one  knew  a  woman 
by  the  name  of  Susan  Gray  ;  but  he  always  received 
an  answer  in  the  negative.  At  last  an  old  woman 
said  that  a  girl  named  Susan  Andrews  boarded  with 
her  for  a  while  ;  that  she  was  very  feeble,  and  lived 
in  a  street  near  by.  He  followed  the  directions  she 
gave,  and  stopped  before  the  house  to  play.  People 
came  to  the  door  and  windows,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
the  boy  pressed  his  hand  and  said,  "  There  is  the 
woman  you  want  to  find." 

He  stopped  abruptly,  and  exclaimed,  "  Susy  !" 
There  was  an  anxious  tenderness  in  his  tones,  which 
the  bystanders  heard  with  loud  laughter.  They 
shouted,  "  Susy,  you  are  called  for  !  Here's  a  beau 
for  you  !"  and  many  a  ribald  jest  went  round. 

But  she,  in  a  sadder  voice  than  usual,  said,  "  My 
poor  fellow,  what  do  you  want  of  me  ?" 

"  Did  you  give  me  a  shilling  a  few  weeks  ago  ?" 
he  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  did  ;  but  surely  that  was  no  great  thing." 

"  Had  you  ever  a  brother  named  Jerry  ?"  he  in 
quired. 

"  Oh,  Heavens !  tell  me  if  you  know  any  thing  of 
him  !"  she  exclaimed. 
22* 


258  KOSENGLOEY. 

He  fell  into  her  arms,  sobbing,  "  My  sister !  My 
poor  sister  !" 

The  laughter  hushed  instantly,  and  many  eyes 
were  filled  with  tears.  There  were  human  hearts 
there  also ;  and  they  felt  at  once  the  poor  piper  was 
Susy's  long-lost  brother,  and  that  he  had  come  home 
to  her  blind. 

For  an  instant,  she  clasped  him  convulsively  to  her 
heart.  Then  thrusting  him  away  with  a  sudden 
movement,  she  said,  "  Don't  touch  me,  Jerry !  Don't 
touch  me  !" 

*  "  Why  not  ?  dear  sister,"  he  asked.  But  she  only 
replied,  in  a  deep,  hollow  tone  of  self-loathing,  "  Don't 
touch  me  !" 

Not  one  of  the  vicious  idlers  smiled.  Some  went 
away  weeping ;  others,  with  affectionate  solicitude, 
offered  refreshments  to  the  poor  blind  wanderer.  Alas, 
he  would  almost  have  ivished  for  blindness,  could  he 
have  seen  the  haggard  spectre  that  stood  before  him, 
and  faintly  recognised,  in  her  wild  melancholy  eyes, 
his  own  beloved  Rosenglory. 

From  'that  hour,  he  devoted  himself  to  her  with  the 
most  assiduous  attention.  He  felt  that  her  steps  trem 
bled  when  she  leaned  on  his  -arm,  he  observed  that  her 
breath  came  with  difficulty,  and  he  knew  that  she 
spoke  truly  when  she  said  she  had  not  long  to  live. 
A  woman,  who  visited  the  house,  told  him  of  a  charita 
ble  institution  in  Tenth  Avenue,  called  the  Home, 
where  women  who  have  been  prisoners,  and  sincerely 
wish  to  reform,  can  find  shelter  and  employment.  He 
went  and  besought  that  his  sister  might  be  allowed  to 
come  there  and  die. 


ROSENGLGRY.  259 

There,  in  a  well  ventilated  room,  on  a  clean  and 
comfortable  bed,  the  weary  pilgrim  at  last  reposed  in 
the  midst  of  true  friends.  "  Oh,  if  I  had  only  met 
with  such  when  my  poor  mother  first  died,  how  dif 
ferent  it  might  all  have  been,"  she  was  wont  to  say.' 
The  blind  brother  kissed  her  forehead,  and  said, 
"  Don't  grieve  for  that  now,  dear.  It  was  not  your 
fault  that  you  had  no  friends." 

One  day,  a  kind  sympathizing  lady  gave  him  a 
bunch  of  flowers  for  his  sister.  Hitherto  an  undefined 
feeling  of  delicacy  had  restrained  him,  when  he 
thought  of  using  the  pet  word  of  their  childhood.  But 
thinking  it  might  perhaps  please  her,  he  stepped  into 
the  room,  and  said,  cheerfully,  "  Here,  Rosenglory  ! 
See  what  I  have  brought  you  !"  It  was  too  much  for 
the  poor  nervous  sufferer.  "  Oh,  don't  call  me  that .'" 
she  said ;  and  she  threw  herself  on  his  neck,  sobbing 
violently. 

He  tried  to  soothe  her  ;  and  after  awhile,  she  said 
in  a  subdued  voice,  "  I  am  bewildered  when  I  think 
about  myself.  They  tell  me  that  I  am  a  great  sinner  : 
and  so  I  am.  But  I  never  inj  ured  any  human  being ;  I 
never  hated  any  one.  Only  once,  when  Robert  mar 
ried  that  rich  woman,  and  told  me  to  keep  out  of  his 
way,  and  get  my  living  as  others  in  my  situation  did 
— then  for  a  little  while,  I  hated  him ;  but  it  was  not 
long.  Dear  Jerry,  I  did  not  mean  to  be  wicked ;  I 
never  wanted  to  be  wicked.  But  there  seemed  to  be 
no  place  in  the  world  for  me.  They  all  wronged  me ; 
and  my  heart  dried  up.  I  was  like  a  withered  leaf, 
and  the  winds  blew  me  about  just  as  it  happened." 

He  pressed  her  hand  to  his  lips,  and  hot  tears  fell 


260  ROSENGLOKY. 

upon  it.     "  Oh,  bless  you,  for  your  love  !"  she  said. 

"  Poor  outcast  as  I  am,  you  do  not  think  I  have  sinned 

beyond  forgiveness.     Do  you  ?" 

Fervently  he  embraced  her,  and  answered,  "  I  too 

have  sinned  ;  but  God  only  knows  the  secret  history  of 

our  neglected  youth,  our  wrongs,  sufferings,  andtempta- 

tions ;  and  say  what  they  will,  1  am  sure  He  will  not 
judge  u  so  harshly  as  men  have  done." 

He  knelt  down  by  the  bed-side-in  silent  prayer,  and 

with  her  hand  clasped  in  his,  they  both  fell  asleep. 

He  dreamed  that  angels  stood  by  the  pillow  and  smiled 
with  sad  pitying  love  on  the  dying  one.  It  was  the 
last  night  he  watched  with  her.  The  next  day,  her 
weary  spirit  passed  away  from  this  world  of  sin  and 
suffering.  The  blind  piper  was  all  alone. 

As  he  sat  holding  her  emaciated  hand,  longing 
once  more  to  see  that  dear  face,  before  the  earth 
covered  it  forever,  a  visitor  came  in  to  look  at  the 
corpse.  She  meant  to  be  kind  and  sympathizing ;  but 
she  did  not  understand  the  workings  of  the  human 
heart.  To  the  wounded  spirit  of  the  mourner,  she 
seemed  to  speak  with  too  much  condescension  of  the 
possibility  of  forgiveness  even  to  so  great  a  sinner. 
He  rose  to  leave  the  room,  and  answered  meekly, 
"  She  was  a  good  child.  But  the  paths  of  her  life 
were  dark  and  tangled,  and  she  lost  her  way." 


A   LEGEND 
OF  THE  FALLS  OF  ST.  ANTHONY. 

Founded  on  Indian  Tradition. 

From  all  its  kind 

This  wasted  heart, 
This  moody  mind 

Now  drifts  apart ; 
It  longs  to  find 

The  tideless  shore, 
Where  rests  the  wreck 

Of  Heretofore— 
The  great  heart-break 

Of  loves  no  more. 

I  drift  alone, 

For  all  are  gone, 

Dearest  to  me ; 

And  hail  the  wave 

That  to  the  grave  •&  r*  \1 

On  hurrieth  me : 
Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  then, 

Thy  wave,  Eternity.  MOTHEBWELL. 

WEE-CHUSH-TA-DOO-TA  was  a  powerful  Sioux  chief. 
He  numbered  many  distinguished  warriors  among  his 
ancestors,  and  was  as  proud  of  his  descent  as  was 
ever  feudal  noble.  His  name  simply  signified  The 
Red  Man  ;  but  he  was  "  a  great  brave,"  and  the  poet 
of  his  tribe,  whose  war-songs  were  sung  on  all  great 
occasions.  In  one  of  the  numerous  battles  of  the 


282  A    LEGEND    OF    THE 

Sioux  with  their  enemies  the  Chippewas,  he  took 
prisoner  a  very  handsome  little  girl.  A  widowed 
woman  begged  to  adopt  her,  to  supply  the  place 
of  a  daughter,  who  had  gone  to  the  spirit-land ;  and 
thus  the  pretty  young  creature  was  saved  from  the 
general  massacre  of  prisoners.  As  she  approached 
womanhood,  the  heart  of  the  poet-chieftain  inclined 
towards  her,  and  he  made  her  his  wife. 

Their  first-born  was  a  daughter.  When  she  was 
two  years  old,  the  mother,  struck  by  a  peculiarity  in 
the  expression  of  her  eyes,  named  her  Zah-gah-see- 
ga-quay,  which,  in  her  own  language,  signified  Sun 
beams  breaking  through  a  Cloud.  As  she  grew 
older,  this  poetic  name  became  more  and  more  appro 
priate  ;  for  when  she  raised  her  large  deeply-shaded 
eyes,  their  bright  lucid  expression  was  still  more 
obviously  veiled  with  timidity  and  sadness.  Her 
voice,  as  usual  with  young  Indian  women,  was  low 
and  musical,  and  her  laugh  was  gentle  and  childlike. 

T-hejre  was  a  mixed  expression  in  her  character,  as 
in  her  eyes.  She  was  active,  buoyant,  and  energetic, 
in  her  avocations  and  amusements ;  yet  from  child 
hood  she  was  prone  to  serious  moods,  and  loved  to 
be  alone  in  sequestered  places,  watching  the  golden 
gleam  of  sunset  on  the  green  velvet  of  the  hills,  till  it 
passed  away,  and  threw  their  long  twilight-shadows 
across  the  solitude  of  the  prairies. 

Her  father,  proud  of  her  uncommon  intelligence 
and  beauty,  resolved  to  mate  her  with  the  most  re 
nowned  of  warriors,  and  the  most  expert  of  hunters. 
In  the  spring  of  1765,  when  she  had  just  passed  her 
fourteenth  birth-day,  she  attracted  the  attention  of  one 


FALLS     OF     ST.    ANTHONY.  263 

worthy  to  claim  the  prize.  Nee-hee-o-ee-woo,  The 
Wolf  of  the  Hill,  was  a  noble-looking  young  chief, 
belonging  to  the  neighbouring  tribe  of  Shiennes. 
He  was  noted  for  bold  exploits,  superb  horsemanship, 
and  the  richness  of  his  savage  attire.  The  first  time 
he  saw  the  beautiful  Sioux,  he  looked  at  her  with 
earnest  eyes ;  and  he  soon  after  returned,  bringing 
Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta  a  valuable  present  of  furs.  The 
maiden  understood  very  well  why  his  courting-flute 
was  heard  about  the  wigwam  till  late  into  the  night, 
but  the  sounds  excited  no  lively  emotions  in  her  heart. 
The  dashing  young  warrior  came  too  late.  The  week 
previous,  a  Frenchman,  drawn  thither  by  thirst  for 
new  adventures,  had  arrived  with  a  company  of  fur 
traders  from  Quebec.  He  was  a  handsome  man ;  but 
Zah-gah-see-ga-quay  was  less  attracted  by  his  expres 
sive  face  and  symmetrical  figure,  than  by  his  graceful 
gallantry  toward  women,  to  which  she  had  been  hith 
erto  unaccustomed.  His  power  of  fascinating  was 
increased  by  the  marked  preference  bestowed  upon  her 
self.  She  received  his  attentions  with  childish  delight 
and  pretty  bashfulness,  like  a  coy  little  bird.  The 
lustrous  black  hair,  which  he  praised,  was  braided 
more  neatly  than  ever  ;  her  dress  of  soft  beaver-skins 
was  more  coquetishly  garnished  with  porcupine  quill- 
work,  and  her  moccasons  were  embroidered  in  gayer 
patterns. 

The  beauty  of  this  forest  nymph  pleased  the 
Frenchman's  fancy,  and  his  vanity  was  flattered  by 
the  obvious  impression  he  had  made  on  her  youthful 
imagination.  He  was  incapable  of  love.  A  volatile 
temperament,  and  early  dissipation,  had  taken  from 


264  A    LEGEND    OF    THE 

him  that  best  happiness  of  human  life.  But  Indian 
lands  were  becoming  more  and  more  desirable  to  his 
ambitious  nation,  and  Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta  had  the 
disposal  of  broad  and  valuable  tracts.  He  had  an 
aversion  to  marriage  ;  but  this  he  knew-  would  be  but 
the  shadow  of  a  fetter ;  for  he  could  dissolve  the  bond 
at  any  moment,  with  as  little  loss  of  reputation  as  if 
it  were  a  liaison  in  Paris.  Thus  reasoned  civilized 
man,  while  the  innocent  child  of  the  woods  was  as 
unconscious  of  the  possibility  of  such  selfish  calcula 
tions,  as  is  a  robin  in  the  mating  season. 

Her  father  had  encountered  white  men,  and  was 
consequently  more  on  his  guard.  When  Jerome  de 
Ranee  offered  rich  presents,  and  asked  his  daughter 
in  marriage,  he  replied,  "  Zah-gah-see-ga-quay  must 
mate  with  a  chieftain  of  her  own  people.  If  a  pale 
face  marries  an  Indian  woman,  he  calls  her  his  wife 
while  he  likes  to  look  upon  her,  but  when  he  desires 
another,  he  walks  away  and  says  she  is  not  his  wife. 
Such  are  not  the  customs  of  the  red  men." 

Though  Jerome  de  Ranc6  had  secretly  rejoiced 
over  the  illegality  of  an  Indian  marriage,  being  highly 
civilized,  he  of  course  made  the  most  solemn  protes 
tations  of  undying  love  and  everlasting  good  faith. 
But  the  proud  chieftain  had  set  his  heart  upon  an  al 
liance  with  the  magnificent  Wolf  of  the  Hill,  and  he 
listened  coldly.  Obstacles  increased  the  value  of  the 
prize,  and  the  adventurous  Frenchman  was  deter 
mined  to  win  his  savage  bride  at  any  price.  With 
the  facility  of  his  pliant  nation,  he  accommodated 
himself  to  all  the  customs  of  the  tribe  ;  he  swore  to 
adopt  all  their  friendships  and  all  their  enmities  ; 


PALLS     OF     ST.    ANTHONY. 

he  exercised  himself  in  all  performances  requiring 
strength  and  skill,  and  on  all  possible  occasions  he 
exhibited  the  most  reckless  courage.  These  things 
made  him  very  popular,  and  gained  the  admira 
tion  of  the  chief  more  than  was  shown  by  his  grave 
countenance  and  indifferent  manner.  Still  he  could 
not  easily  overcome  a  reluctance  to  mix  his  proud 
race  with  foreign  blood. 

De  Ranee,  considering  himself  the  one  who  stooped 
in  the  proposed  alliance,  was  piqued  by  what  seemed 
to  him  a  ridiculous  assumption  of  superiority.  Had 
it  not  been  for  the  tempting  Indian  lands,  of  which  he 
hoped  to  come  in  possession,  he  would  have  gained 
the  loving  maiden  on  his  own  terms,  and  left  her 
when  he  chose,  without  seeking  to  conciliate  her 
father.  But  the  fulfilment  of  his  ambitious  schemes 
required  a  longer  probation.  With  affected  indiffer 
ence,  he  made  arrangements  for  departure.  He  in 
tended  to  re-appear  among  them  suddenly,  in  a  few 
weeks,  to  test  his  power  over  the  Clouded  Sunbeam  ; 
but  he  said  he  was  going  to  traffic  with  a  neighbour 
ing  tribe,  and  it  was  doubtful  whether  he  should  see 
them  again,  or  return  to  Canada  by  a  different  route. 
That  she  would  pine  for  him,  he  had  no  doubt ;  and 
he  had  observed  that  Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta,  though 
bitter  and  implacable  to  his  enemies,  was  tender 
hearted  as  a  child  toward  his  own  family. 

He  was  not  mistaken  in  his  calculations.  Zah- 
gah-see-ga-quay  did  not  venture  to  dispute  the  will 
of  her  father ;  but  her  sweet  voice  was  no  more 
heard  in  songs  ;  the  sunbeam  in  her  eyes  went  more 
and  more  behind  the  cloud,  and  the  bright  healthy 
23 


266  A    LEGEND    OF    THE 

colour  of  her  cheek  grew  pale.  Her  listless  move 
ments  and  languid  glance  pained  her  mother's  heart, 
and  the  stern  father  could  not  endure  the  mournfulness 
of  their  beseeching  looks.  He  spoke  no  words,  but 
called  together  a  few  of  his  companions,  and  went 
forth  apparently  to  hunt  in  the  forest.  Before  the 
moon  had  traversed  half  her  monthly  orbit,  he  and 
Jerome  entered  the  wigwam  together.  Zah-gar-see- 
ga-quay  was  seated  in  a  dark  corner.  Her  head 
leaned  despondingly  on  her  hand,  and  her  basket- 
work  lay  tangled  beside  her.  As  she  looked  up,  a 
quick  blush  mantled  her  face,  and  her  eyes  shone  like 
stars.  Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta  noticed  the  sudden  change, 
and,  in  tones  of  deep  tenderness,  said,  "  My  child,  go 
to  the  wigwam  of  the  stranger ;  that  your  father  may 
again  see  you  love  to  look  on  the  rising  sun  and  the 
opening  flowers."  There  was  mingled  joy  and  mod 
esty  in  the  upward  glance  of  The  Clouded  Sunbeam, 
and  when  she  turned  away  bashfully  from  his  trium 
phant  gaze,  the  Frenchman  smiled  with  a  conscious 
ness  of  unlimited  power  over  her  simple  heart. 

That  evening,  they  rambled  alone,  under  the 
friendly  light  of  the  moon.  When  they  returned,  a 
portion  of  the  scarlet  paint  from  her  brown  cheek  was 
transferred  to  the  face. of  her  lover.  Among  his 
Parisian  acquaintance,  this  would  have  given  rise  to 
many  a  witty  jest ;  but  the  Indians,  with  more  natural 
politeness,  observed  it  silently.  A  few  days  after,  the 
gentle  daughter  of  the  Sioux  passed  into  the  tent  of 
the  stranger,  and  became  his  wife. 

Years  passed  on,  and  she  remained  the  same  de 
voted,  submissive  friend.  In  all  domestic  avocations 


FALLS     OF     ST.    ANTHONY.  267 

of  the  Indians,  she  was  most  skilful.  No  one  made 
more  beautiful  matting,  or  wove  into  it  such  pretty 
patterns.  The  beaver  skins  she  dressed  were  as  soft 
and  pliable  as  leather  could  be.  She  rowed  her 
canoe  with  light  and  vigorous  stroke,  and  the  flight 
of  her  arrow  was  unerring.  Her  husband  loved  her 
as  well  as  was  possible  for  one  of  his  butterfly  temper 
ament  and  selfish  disposition ;  but  the  deferential 
courtesy  of  the  European  lover  gradually  subsided 
into  something  like  the  lordly  indifference  of  the  men 
around  him.  He  was  never  harsh ;  but  his  affection 
ate  bride  felt  the  change  in  his  manner,  and  some 
times  wept  in  secret.  When  she  nestled  at  his  feet, 
and  gazed  into  his  countenance  with  her  peculiarly 
pleading  plaintive  look,  she  sometimes  obtained  a 
glance  such  as  he  had  given  her  in  former  days. 
Then  her  heart  would  leap  like  a  frolicsome  lamb, 
and  she  would  live  cheerfully  on  the  remembrance  of 
that  smile  through  wearisome  days  of  silence  and 
neglect.  Her  love  amounted  to  passionate  idolatry. 
If  he  wished  to  cross  the  river,  she  would  ply  the  oar, 
lest  he  should  suffer  fatigue.  She  carried  his  quiver 
and  his  gun  through  the  forest,  and  when  they  re 
turned  at  twilight,  he  lounged  indolently  on  the  bottom 
of  the  boat,  while  she  dipped  her  oars  in  unison  with 
her  low  sweet  voice,  soothing  him  with  some  simple 
song,  where  the  same  plaintive  tones  perpetually  came, 
and  went  away  in  lullaby-cadence. 

To  please  him,  she  named  her  son  and  daughter 
Felicie  and  Florimond,  in  memory  of  his  favourite 
brother  and  sister.  On  these  little  ones,  she  could 
lavish  her  abundant  love  without  disappointment  or 


269  A   LEGEND   OF    THE 

fear.  The  children  inherited  their  parents'  beauty ; 
but  Felicie,  the  eldest,  was  endowed  with  a  double 
portion.  She  had  her  mother's  large  lucid  eye,  less 
deeply  shaded  with  the  saddening  cloud ;  but  her 
other  features  resembled  her  handsome  father.  Her 
oval  cheeks  had  just  enough  of  the  Indian  tint  to 
give  them  a  rich  warm  colouring.  At  thirteen  years 
old,  her  tall  figure  combined  the  graceful  elasticity  of 
youth,  with  the  rounded  fulness  of  womanhood.  She 
inherited  her  father's  volatile  temperament,  and  was 
always  full  of  fun  and  frolic.  As  a  huntress,  she  was 
the  surest  eye,  and  the  fleetest  foot ;  and  her  pretty 
canoe  skimmed  the  waters  like  a  stormy  petrel.  It 
was  charming  to  see  this  young  creature,  so  full  of 
life,  winding  about  among  the  eddies  of  the  river,  or 
darting  forward,  her  long  black  hair  streaming  on  the 
wind,  and  her  rich  red  lips  parted  with  eagerness. 
She  sported  with  her  light  canoe,  and  made  it  play 
all  manner  of  gambols  in  the  water.  It  dashed  and 
splashed,  and  whirled  round  in  pirouettes,  like  an 
opera-dancer ;  then,  in  the  midst  of  swift  circles,  she 
would  stop  at  once,  and  laugh,  as  she  gracefully  shook 
back  the  hair  from  her  glowing  face.  Jerome  de 
Ranee  had  never  loved  anything,  as  he  did  this  beau 
tiful  child.  But  something  of  anxiety  and  sadness, 
mingled  with  his  pride,  when  he  saw  her  caracoling 
on  her  swift  little  white  horse  of  the  prairies,  or  leap 
ing  into  the  chase,  or  making  her  canoe  caper  like  a 
thing  alive.  Buoyant  and  free  was  her  Indian  child 
hood  ;  but  she  was  approaching  the  period,  when  she 
would  be  claimed  as  a  wife  ;  and  he  could  not  endure 
the  thought,  that  the  toilsome  life  of  a  squaw,  would  be 


FALLS     OF    ST.    ANTHONY.  269 

the  portion  of  his  beautiful  daughter.     He  taught  her 
to  dance  to  his  flute,  and  hired  an  old   Catholic  priest 
to  instruct  her  in  reading  and  writing.     But  these 
lessons  were  irksome  to  the  Indian  girl,  and  she  was 
perpetually  eluding   her  father's    vigilance,   to  hunt 
squirrels  in  the  woods,  or  sport  her  canoe  among  the 
eddies.     He  revolved  many  plans  for  her  future  ad 
vancement  in  life  ;  and  sometimes,  when  he  turned 
his  restless  gaze  from  daughter  to  mother,  the  wife 
felt  troubled,  by  an  expression  she  did  not  understand. 
In  order  to  advance  his  ambitious  views,  it  was  neces 
sary  to  wean  Felicie  from  her  woodland  home ;  and 
he  felt  that  his  Clouded-Sunbeam,  though  still  beau 
tiful,  would  be   hopelessly  out  of  place   in  Parisian 
saloons.       Wee-chush-ta-doo-ta  and   his    wife   were 
dead,  and  their  relatives  were  too  much  occupied  with 
war  and  hunting,  to  take  particular  notice  of  the  white 
man's  movements.     The  acres  of  forest  and  prairie, 
which  he  had  received,  on  most  advantageous  terms, 
from  his  Indian  father-in-law,  were  sold,  tract  after 
tract,  and  the  money  deposited  in  Quebec.     Thither, 
he  intended  to  convey  first  his  daughter,. and  then  his 
son,  on  pretence  of  a  visit,  for  the  purposes  of  educa 
tion,  but  in  reality,  with  the  intention  of  deserting  his 
wife,  to  return  no  more. 

According  to  Indian  custom,  the  mother's  right  to 
her  offspring  amounts  to  unquestioned  law.  If  her 
husband  chooses  to  leave  the  tribe,  the  children  must 
remain  with  her.  It  was  therefore  necessary  to  pro 
ceed  artfully.  De  Ranee  became  more  than  usually 
aifectionate  ;  and  Zah-gah-see-ga-quay,  grateful  for 
such  gleams  of  his  old  tenderness,  granted  his  earnest 
23* 


270  A    LEGEND    OF    THE 

prayer,  that  Felicie  might  go  to  Quebec,  for  a  few 
moons  only.  The  Canadian  fur-traders  made  their 
annual  visit  at  this  juncture,  arid  he  resolved  to  accept 
their  escort  for  himself  and  daughter.  His  wife  beg 
ged  hard  to  accompany  them ;  humbly  promising, 
that  she  would  not  intrude  among  his  white  friends, 
but  would  remain  with  a  few  of  her  tribe,  hidden  in 
neighbouring  woods,  where  she  could  now  and  then 
get  a  glimpse  of  their  beloved  faces.  Such  an  arrange 
ment,  was  by  no  means  pleasing  to  the  selfish  Euro 
pean.  The  second  time  she  ventured  to  suggest  it, 
he  answered  briefly  and  sternly,  and  the  beautiful 
shaded  eyes  filled  with  unnoticed  tears.  Felicie  was 
the  darling  of  her  heart ;  she  so  much  resembled  the 
handsome  Frenchman,  as  she  had  first  known  him. 
When  the  parting  hour  came,  she  clung  to  her 
daughter  with  a  passionate  embrace,  and  then  start 
ing  up  with  convulsive  energy,  like  some  gentle  ani 
mal  when  her  young  is  in  danger,  she  exclaimed, 
"  Felicie  is  my  child,  and  I  will  not  let  her  go."  De 
Ranee  looked  at  her,  as  he  had  never  looked  before, 
and  raised  his  arm  to  push  her  away.  Frightened  at 
the  angry  expression  of  his  eye,  she  thought  he  in 
tended  to  strike  her ;  and  with  a  deep  groan  she  fell 
on  the  earth,  and  hid  her  face  in  the  long  grass. 

Felicie  sobbed,  and  stretched  out  her  arms  implo 
ringly  towards  her  mother ;  but  quick  as  a  flash,  her 
father  lifted  her  on  the  horse,  swung  himself  lightly 
into  the  same  saddle,  and  went  off  at  a  swift  gallop. 
When  the  poor  distracted  mother  rose  from  the  ground, 
they  were  already  far  off,  a  mere  speck  on  the  wide 
prairie.  This  rude  parting  would  perhaps  have  kill- 


FALLS     OF     ST.    ANTHONY.  271 

ed  her  heart,  had  it  not  been  for  her  handsome  boy  of 
seven  summers.  With  a  sad  countenance,  he  gravely 
seated  himself  by  her  side.  She  spoke  no  word  to 
him,  but  the  tears  rolled  slowly  down,  as  she  gazed  at 
him,  and  tried  to  trace  a  resemblance  to  his  unkind 
father. 

The  promised  period  of  return  arrived ;  but  moon 
after  moon  passed  away,  and  nothing  was  heard  from 
the  absent  ones.  A  feeling  that  she  had  been  inten 
tionally  deceived  gradually  grew  strong  within  the 
heart  of  the  Indian  mother;  and  the  question  often 
arose,  "  Will  he  seek  to  take  my  boy  away  also  ?" 
As  time  passed  on,  and  suspicion  changed  into  cer 
tainty,  she  became  stern  and  bitter.  She  loved  young 
Florimond  intensely ;  but  even  this  love  was  tinged 
with  fierceness,  hitherto  foreign  to  her  nature.  She 
scornfully  abjured  his  French  name,  and  called  him 
Mah-to-chee-ga,  The  Little  Bear.  Her  strongest 
wish  seemed  to  be  to  make  him  as  hard  and  proud  as 
his  grandfather  had  been,  and  to  instil  into  his  bosom 
the  deadliest  hatred  of  white  men.  The  boy  learned 
her  lessons  well.  He  was  the  most  inveterate  little 
savage  that  ever  let  fly  an  arrow.  Already,  he  car 
ried  at  his  belt  the  scalp  of  a  boy  older  and  bigger 
than  himself,  the  son  of  a  chief,  with  whom  his  tribe 
were  at  war.  The  Sioux  were  proud  of  his  vigour  and 
his  boldness,  and  considered  his  reckless  courage 
almost  a  sufficient  balance  to  the  disadvantage  of 
mixed  blood. 

Such  was  the  state  of  things,  when  Jerome  de 
Ranee  returned  to  the  shores  of  the  Mississippi,  after 
an  absence  of  three  years.  He  was  mainly  induced 


272  A    LEGEND    OF    THE 

to  make  this  visit  by  a  wish  to  retain  some  hold  upon 
his  Indian  boy,  and  preserve  a  good  understanding 
with  the  tribe,  as  an  advantage  in  future  speculations. 
He  had  some  dread  of  meeting  the  Clouded  Sunbeam, 
and  was  not  without  fear  that  she  might  have  exaspe 
rated  her  people  against  him.  But  he  trusted  much 
to  her  tenderness  for  him,  and  still  more  to  his  own 
adroitness.  He  was,  however,  surprised  at  the  cold 
indifference  with  which  she  met  him.  He  had  ex 
pected  deep  resentment,  but  he  was  not  prepared  for 
such  perfect  apathy.  He  told  a  mournful  and  highly- 
wrought  story  of  Felicie's  sudden  death,  by  being 
thrown  from  her  horse,  in  their  passage  through  the 
forest ;  and  sought  to  excuse  his  long  absence,  by 
talking  of  his  overwhelming  grief,  and  his  reluctance 
to  bring  sad  tidings.  The  bereaved  mother  listen 
ed  without  emotion;  for  she  did  not  believe  him. 
She  thought,  and  thought  truly,  that  Felicie  was  in 
her  father's  native  land,  across  the  wide  ocean.  All 
his  kind  glances  and  endearing  epithets  were  received 
with  the  same  stolid  indifference.  Only  when  he 
talked  with  her  Little  Bear,  did  she  rouse  from  this 
apparent  lethargy.  She  watched  over  him  like  a  she- 
wolf,  when  her  young  are  in  danger.  She  hoped 
that  the  hatred  of  white  men,  so  carefully  instilled, 
would  prove  a  sufficient  shield  against  all  attempts  to 
seduce  him  from  her.  But  in  the  course  of  a  few 
weeks,  she  saw  plainly  enough  that  the  fascinating 
and  insidious  Frenchman  was  gaining  complete  power 
over  the  boy,  as  he  had  over  her  own  youthful  spirit. 
She  was  maddened  with  jealousy  at  her  own  dimin 
ished  influence  ;  and  when  Mah-to-chee-ga  at  last  ex- 


FALLS    OF    ST.    ANTHONY.  273 

pressed  a  wish  to  go  to  Canada  with  his  father,  the 
blow  was  too  severe  for  her  deeply  lacerated  soul. 
The  one  thought  that  he  would  be  enticed  away  from 
her  took  complete  possession  of  her  mind,  and  night 
and  day  she  brooded  over  plans  of  vengeance.  More 
than  once,  she  nearly  nerved  her  hand  to  murder  the 
father  of  her  son.  But  his  features  recalled  the  image 
of  the  handsome  young  Frenchman,  who  had  carried 
her  arrows  through  the  woods,  and  kissed  the  mocca- 
son  he  stooped  to  tie  ;  and  she  could  not  kill  him. 

As  the  time  approached  for  de  Ranee  to  return  to 
Canada  with  the  traders,  her  intense  anxiety  increased 
almost  to  frenzy.  One  day,  when  he  had  gone  to  a 
neighbouring  tribe  to  traffic  for  furs,  she  invited  Mah- 
to-chee-ga  to  go  up  the  river  with  her,  to  fish.  She 
decked  herself  in  her  most  richly  embroidered  skins, 
and  selected  the  gaudiest  wampum-belt  for  her  Little 
Bear.  When  the  boy  asked  why  they  were  dressed 
so  carefully,  she  replied,  "  Because  we  are  going  to 
meet  your  grandfather,  who  was  a  great  brave,  and  a 
mighty  hunter."  He  was  puzzled  by  the  answer,  but 
when  he  questioned  of  her  meaning,  she  remained 
silent.  When  they  came  to  the  waterside,  she  paused 
and  looked  back  on  the  forest,  where  she  had  spent 
her  happy  childhood,  and  enjoyed  her  brief  dream  of 
love.  The  beautiful  past,  followed  by  a  long  train  of 
dark  shadows,  rushed  through  memory,  and  there 
seemed  no  relief  for  her  but  death. 

She  entered  the  boat  with  a  calm  countenance,  and 
began  to  chant  one  of  those  oppressively  mournful 
songs,  which  must  have  been  suggested  to  her  people 
by  the  monotonous  minor  cadences  of  the  rustling 


274    A  LEGEND  OF  THE  FALLS  OF  ST.  ANTHONY. 

forest.  As  they  approached  the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony, 
and  heard  more  and  more  plainly  the  rush  of  waters, 
she  gazed  on  her  child  with  such  a  wild  expression 
of  vehement  love,  that  the  boy  was  frightened.  But 
his  eye  was  spell-bound  to  hers,  and  he  could  not  es 
cape  its  concentrated  magnetic  power.  At  length, 
his  attention  was  roused  by  the  violent  motions  of  the 
boat ;  and  he  screamed,  "  Mother  !  mother !  the  canoe 
is  going  over  the  rapids  !" 

"  We  go  to  the  spirit-land  together,"  she  replied : 
"  he  cannot  come  there  to  separate  us." 

With  whirl  and  splash,  the  boat  plunged  down  the 
cataract.  The  white  foam  leaped  over  it,  and  it  was 
seen  no  more. 

The  sky  soon  after  darkened,  and  the  big  rain  fell 
in  torrents. 

The  Indians  believe  that  the  spirits  of  the  drowned 
ones,  veiled  in  a  winding-sheet  of  mist,  still  hover 
over  the  fatal  spot.  When  they  see  the  vapour  rising, 
they  say,  "  Let  us  not  hunt  to-day  ;  a  storm  will  cer 
tainly  come ;  for  Zah-gah-see-ga-quay  and  her  son 
are  going  over  the  Falls  of  St.  Anthony." 

Felicie  was  informed  of  the  death  of  her  mother 
and  brother,  and  wept  for  them  bitterly,  though  she 
never  knew  the  painful  circumstances  of  their  exit. 
She  married  a  wealthy  Frenchman,  and  was  long 
pointed  out  in  society  as  "  La  Belle  Indienne." 


THE  BROTHERS. 


Three  pnre  heavens  opened,  beaming  in  three  pure  hearts,  and  nothing  was 
in  them  but  God,  love,  and  joy,  and  the  little  tear-drop  of  earth  which  hangs 
upon  all  our  flowers. — Richter. 

FEW  know  how  to  estimate  the  precious  gem  of 
friendship  at  its  real  worth  ;  few  guard  it  with  the  ten 
der  care  which  its  rarity  and  excellence  deserves. 
Love,  like  the  beautiful  opal,  is  a  clouded  gem,  which 
carries  a  spark  of  fire  in  its  bosom ;  but  true  friend 
ship,  like  a  diamond,  radiates  steadily  from  its  trans 
parent  heart. 

This  sentiment  was  never  experienced  in  greater 
depth  and  purity  than  by  David  and  Jonathan  True- 
man,  brothers,  of  nearly  the  same  age.  Their  friend 
ship  was  not  indeed  of  that  exciting  and  refreshing 
character,  which  is  the  result  of  a  perfect  accord  of 
very  different  endowments.  It  was  unison,  not  har 
mony.  In  person,  habits,  and  manners,  they  were  as 
much  alike  as  two  leaves  of  the  same  tree.  They 
were  both  hereditary  members  of  the  Society  of 
Friends,  and  remained  so  from  choice.  They  were 
acquainted  in  the  same  circle,  and  engaged  in  similar 
pursuits.  "  Their  souls  wore  exactly  the  same  frock- 
coat  and  morning-dress  of  life  ;  I  mean  two  bodies 
with  the  same  cuffs  and  collars,  of  the  same  colour, 
button-holes,  trimmings  and  cut." 


276  THE    BROTHERS. 

Jonathan  was  a  little  less  sedate  than  his  older 
brother  ;  he  indulged  a  little  more  in  the  quiet,  elderly 
sort  of  humour  of  the  "  Cheeryble  Brothers."  But  it 
was  merely  the  difference  between  the  same  lake  per 
fectly  calm,  or  faintly  rippled  by  the  slightest  breeze. 
They  were  so  constantly  seen  together,  that  they 
were  called  the  Siamese  Twins.  Unfortunately,  this 
similarity  extended  to  a  sentiment  which  does  not 
admit  of  partnership.  They  both  loved  the  same 
maiden. 

Deborah  Winslow  was  the  only  daughter  of  one  of 
those  substantial  Quakers,  whom  a  discriminating 
observer  would  know,  at  first  sight,  was  "  well  to  do  in 
the  world ;"  for  the  fine  broadcloth  coat  and  glossy 
hat  spoke  that  fact  with  even  less  certainty  than  the 
perfectly  comfortable  expression  of  countenance.  His 
petted  child  was  like  a  blossom  planted  in  sunny  pla 
ces,  and  shielded  from  every  rude  wind.  All  her 
little  lady-like  whims  were  indulged.  If  the  drab- 
coloured  silk  was  not  exactly  the  right  shade,  or  the 
Braithwaite  muslin  was  not  sufficiently  fine  and  trans 
parent,  orders  must  be  sent  to  London,  that  her  dain 
tiness  might  be  satisfied.  Her  countenance  was  a 
true  index  of  life  passed  without  strong  emotions. 
The  mouth  was  like  a  babe's,  the  blue  eyes  were  mild 
and  innocent,  and  the  oval  face  was  unvarying  in  the 
delicate  tint  of  the  Sweet  Pea  blossom.  Her  hair 
never  straggled  into  ringlets,  or  played  with  the  breeze  ; 
its  silky  bands  were  always  like  rnolasses-candy, 
moulded  to  yellowish  whiteness,  and  laid  in  glossy 
braids. 

There  is  much  to  be  said  in  favour  of  this  unvarying 


THE    BROTHERS.  277 

serenity  ;  for  it  saves  a  vast  amount  of  suffering.  But 
all  natures  cannot  thus  glide  through  an  unruffled 
existence.  Deborah's  quiet  temperament  made  no 
resistance  to  its  uniform  environment;  but  had  I  been 
trained  in  her  exact  sect,  I  should  inevitably  have 
boiled  over  and  melted  the  moulds. 

She  had  always  been  acquainted  with  the  Trueman 
brothers.  They  all  attended  the  same  school,  and 
they  sat  in  sight  of  each  other  at  the  same  meeting  ; 
though  Quaker  custom,  ever  careful  to  dam  up 
human  nature  within  safe  limits,  ordained  that  they 
should  be  seated  on  different  sides  of  the  house,  and 
pass  out  by  different  doors.  They  visited  the  same 
neighbours,  and  walked  home  in  company.  She 
probably  never  knew,  with  positive  certainty,  which 
of  the  brothers  she  preferred ;  she  had  always  been 
in  the  habit  of  loving  them  both  ;  but  Jonathan  hap 
pened  to  ask  first,  whether  she  loved  him. 

It  was  during  an  evening  walk,  that  he  first  men 
tioned  the  subject  to  David ;  and  he  could  not  see 
how  his  limbs  trembled,  and  his  face  flushed.  The 
emotion,  though  strong  and  painful,  was  soon  sup 
pressed  ;  and  in  a  voice  but  slightly  constrained,  he 
inquired,  "  Does  Deborah  love  thee,  brother  ?" 

The  young  man  replied  that  he  thought  so,  and 
he  intended  to  ask  her,  as  soon  as  the  way  opened. 

David  likewise  thought,  that  Deborah  was  attached 
to  him ;  and  he  had  invited  her  to  ride  the  next  day, 
for  the  express  purpose  of  ascertaining  the  point. 
Never  had  his  peaceful  soul  been  in  such  a  tumult. 
Sometimes  he  thought  it  would  be  right  and  honour 
able,  to  tell  Deborah  that  they  both  loved  her,  and 
24 


278  THE    BROTHERS. 

ask  her  to  name  her  choice.  "  But  then  if  she 
should  prefer  me"  he  said  to  himself,"  it  will  make 
dear  Jonathan  very  unhappy ;  and  if  she  should 
choose  him,  it  will  be  a  damper  on  their  happiness,  to 
known  that  I  am  disappointed.  If  she  accepts  him,  I 
will  keep  my  secret  to  myself.  It  is  a  heavy  cross  to 
take  up ;  but  William  Penn  says,  '  no  cross,  no 
crown/  In  this  case,  I  would  be  willing  to  give  up 
the  crown,  if  I  could  get  rid  of  the  cross.  But  then 
if  I  lay  it  down,  poor  Jonathan  must  bear  it.  I  have 
always  found  that  it  brought  great  peace  of  mind  to 
conquer  selfishness,  and  I  will  strive  to  do  so  now. 
As  my  brother's  wife,  she  will  still  be  a  near  and 
dear  friend ;  and  their  children  will  seem  almost  like 
my  own." 

A  current  of  counter  thoughts  rushed  through  his 
mind.  He  rose  quickly  and  walked  the  room,  with  a 
feverish  agitation  he  had  never  before  experienced. 
But  through  all  the  conflict,  the  idea  of  saving  his 
brother  from  suffering  remained  paramount  to  his  own 
pain. 

The  promised  ride  could  not  be  avoided,  but  it 
proved  a  temptation  almost  too  strong  for  the  good 
unselfish  man.  Deborah's  sweet  face  looked  so 
pretty  under  the  shadow  of  her  plain  bonnet ;  her 
soft  hand  remained  in  his  so  confidingly,  when  she 
was  about  to  enter  the  chaise,  and  turned  to  speak  to 
her  mother ;  she  smiled  on  him  so  affectionately,  and 
called  him  Friend  David,  in  such  winning  tones,  that 
it  required  all  his  strength  to  avoid  uttering  the  ques 
tion,  which  for  ever  trembled  on  his  lips  :  "  Dost  thouT 
love  me,  Deborah  ?  "  But  always  there  rose  between 


_ 

THE    BROTHERS.  279 

them  the  image  of  that  dear  brother,  who  slept  in  his 
arms  in  childhood,  and  shared  the  same  apartment 
now.  "  Let  him  have  the  first  chance,"  he  said  to 
himself.  If  he  is  accepted,  I  will  be  resigned,  and 
will  be  to  them  both  a  true  friend  through  life.  A 
very  slight  pressure  of  the  hand  alone  betrayed  his 
agitation,  when  he  opened  the  door  of  her  house,  and 
said,  "  Farewell,  Deborah." 

In  a  few  days,  Jonathan  informed  him  that  he  was 
betrothed  ;  and  the  magnanimous  brother  wished  him 
joy  with  a  sincere  heart,  concealing  that  it  was  a  sad 
one.  His  first  impulse  was  to  go  away,  that  he  might 
not  be  daily  reminded  of  what  he  had  lost ;  but  the 
fear  of  marring  their  happiness  enabled  him  to  choose 
the  wiser  part  of  making  at  once  the  eflbrt  that  must 
be  made.  No  one  suspected  the  sacrifice  he  laid  on 
the  altar  of  friendship.  When  the  young  couple 
were  married,  he  taxed  his  ingenuity  to  furnish 
whatever  he  thought  would  please  the  bride,  by  its 
peculiar  neatness  and  elegance.  At  first,  he  found  it 
very  hard  to  leave  them  by  their  cozy  pleasant  fire 
side,  and  go  to  his  own  solitary  apartment,  where  he 
never  before  had  dwelt  alone ;  and  when  the  bride 
and  bridegroom  looked  at  each  other  tenderly,  the 
glance  went  through  his  heart  like  an  arrow  of  fire. 
But  when  Deborah,  with  gentle  playfulness,  apolo 
gized  for  having  taken  his  brother  away  from  him, 
he  replied,  with  a  quiet  smile,  "  Nay,  my  friend,  I 
have  not  lost  a  brother,  I  have  only  gained  a  sister." 
His  self-denial  seemed  so  easy,  that  the  worldly 
might  have  thought  it  cost  him  little  effort,  and  de 
served  no  praise ;  but  the  angels  loved  him  for  it. 


THE    BROTHERS. 

By  degrees  he  resumed  his  wonted  serenity,  and 
became  the  almost  constant  inmate  of  their  house.  A 
stranger  might  almost  have  doubted  which  was  the 
husband ;  so  completely  were  the  three  united  in  all 
their  affections,  habits,  and  pursuits.  A  little  son  and 
daughter  came  to  strengthen  the  bond ;  and  the  affec 
tionate  uncle  found  his  heart  almost  as  much  cheered 
by  them,  as  if  they  had  been  his  own.  Many  an 
agreeable  young  Friend  would  have  willingly  super 
intended  a  household  for  David  ;  but  there  was  a  na 
tural  refinement  in  his  character,  which  rendered  it 
impossible  to  make  a  marriage  of  convenience.  He 
felt,  more  deeply  than  was  apparent,  that  there  was 
something  wanting  in  his  earthly  lot ;  but  he  could 
not  marry,  unless  he  found  a  woman  whom  he  loved 
as  dearly  as  he  ha#  loved  Deborah  ;  and  such  a  one 
never  again  came  to  him. 

Their  years  flowed  on  with  quiet  regularity,  dis 
turbed  with  few  of  the  ills  humanity  is  heir  to.  In  all 
the  small  daily  affairs  of  life,  each  preferred  the 
other's  good,  and  thus  secured  the  happiness  of  the 
whole.  Abroad,  their  benevolence  fell  with  the  noise 
less  liberality  of  dew.  The  brothers  both  prospered 
in  business,  and  Jonathan  inherited  a  large  portion  of 
his  father-in-law's  handsome  property.  Never  were 
a  family  so  pillowed  and  cushioned  on  the  carriage- 
road  to  heaven.  But  they  were  so  simply  and  natu 
rally  virtuous,  that  the  smooth  path  was  less  danger 
ous  to  them  than  to  others. 

Reverses  came  at  last  in  Jonathan's  affairs.  The 
failure  of  others,  less  careful  than  himself,  involved 
him  in  their  disasters.  But  David  was  rich,  and  the 


THE    BROTHERS.  281 

idea  of  a  separate  purse  was  unknown  between  them ; 
therefore  the  gentle  Deborah  knew  no  change  in  her 
household  comforts  and  elegancies,  and  felt  no  neces 
sity  of  diminishing  their  large  liberality  to  the  poor. 

At  sixty-three  years  old,  the  younger  brother  de 
parted  this  life,  in  the  arms  of  his  constant  friend. 
The  widow,  who  had  herself  counted  sixty  winters, 
had  been  for  some  time  gradually  declining  in  health. 
When  the  estate  was  settled,  the  property  was  found 
insufficient  to  pay  debts.  But  the  kind  friend,  with 
the  same  delicate  disinterestedness  which  had  always 
characterized  him,  carefully  concealed  this  fact.  He 
settled  a  handsome  fortune  upon  the  widow,  which 
she  always  supposed  to  be  a  portion  of  her  husband's 
estate.  Being  executor,  he  managed  affairs  as  he 
liked.  He  borrowed  his  own  capital ;  and  every 
quarter,  he  gravely  paid  her  interest  on  his  own  money. 
In  the  refinement  of  his  generosity,  he  was  not  satis 
fied  to  support  her  in  the  abundance  to  which  she  had 
been  accustomed  ;  he  wished  to  have  her  totally  un 
conscious  of  obligation,  and  perfectly  free  to  dispose 
of  the  funds  as  she  pleased. 

His  goodness  was  not  limited  to  his  own  house- 
hold.  If  a  poor  seamstress  was  declining  in  health, 
for  want  of  exercise  and  variety  of  scene,  David 
Trueman  was  sure  to  invite  her  to  Niagara,  or  the 
Springs,  as  a  particular  favour  to  him,  because  he 
needed  company.  If  there  was  a  lone  widow,  pecu 
liarly  friendless,  his  carriage  was  always  at  her  service. 
If  there  was  a  maiden  lady  uncommonly  homely,  his 
arm  was  always  ready  as  an  escort  to  public  places. 
Without  talking  at  all  upon  the  subject,  he  practical- 
24* 

' 


282  THE    BROTHERS. 

ly  devoted  himself  to  the   mission  of  attending  upon 
the  poor,  the  unattractive,  and  the  neglected. 

Thus  the  good  old  bachelor  prevents  his  sympathies 
from  congealing,  and  his  heart  from  rusting  out. 
The  sunlight  was  taken  away  from  his  landscape  of 
life ;  but  little  birds  sleep  in  their  nests,  and  sweet 
flowers  breathe  their  fragrance  lovingly  through  the 
bright  moonlight  of  his  tranquil  existence. 


< 


PUBLISHED  BY  C.  S.  FRANCIS  &  CO.,  NEW-  YORK. 


of  a.  iflarta 


PHILOTHEA:    A    GRECIAN     ROMANCE. 

A  New  and  Beautiful  Edition,  Revised  and  Corrected. 

"This  novel,  as  its  title  indicates,  is  an  attempt  to  paint  the  manners  and  life  of 
Grecian  Classical  times.  Mrs.  Child  has  some  intellectual  traits,  which  are  well 
suited  to  success  in  this  field  of  literary  enterprize.  She  has  a  vigorous  and  ex 
uberant  imagination,  and  an  accurate  eye  for  beauty  of  form.  She  understands 
the  harmonious  construction  of  language,  and  can  describe  both  nature  and  society 
with  liveliness  and  truth.  Her  style,  in  its  general  character,  is  rich  and  eloquent  j 
abounding  in  brilliant  turns  and  fanciful  illustrations.  It  is  generally  simple,  ener 
getic,  and  impressive  ;  but  sometimes  it  is  too  dazzling.  The  time  selected  by  Mrs. 
Child  is  the  most  brilliant  period  in  the  history  of  Athens. 

"  We  cannot  leave  the  book,  without  expressing  our  persuasion  that  it  will  take  a 
prominent  place  m  our  elegant  literature.  Every  page  of  it  breathes  the  inspiration 
of  genius,  and  shows  a  highly  cultivated  taste  in  literature  and  art." — JV.  A.  Rev. 


LETTERS    FROM    NEW-YORK. 

First  and  Second  Series. 

"  Mrs.  Child  is  a  wonderful  woman.  It  is  not  likely  that  all  her  thoughts  will  find 
currency  in  the  world,  at  this  day,  and  be  received  as  the  common-place  of  the  mind ; 
but  those,  who  will  regard  her  as  visionary  and  enthusiastic,  will  yet  admire  her 
originality  ;  and  those  who  think  the  visionary  to  be  weak  in  mind,  will  be  startled 
by  such  boldness  of  thought,  as  none  but  the  strong  can  conceive  ;  yet  visionary  and 
enthusiastic  as  some  may  pronounce  her,  and  bold  to  think  what  the  present  thinks 
itself  unprepared  for,  there  is  nothing  of  harsh  statement  to  be  found  in  her  expres 
sions.  So  far  from  it,  that  her  mind  rather  re.sembles  the  vine  which  hangs  in  grace 
ful  festoons  upon  the  oak ;  and  its  visions  remind  one  not  of  the  splendours  of  a 
thunder-storm  with  gleams  of  lightning  at  night,  but  of  the  soft  light  of  the  morning, 
or  the  clouds  which  crowd  around  the  west  to  see  the  sun  go  down.  A  gentler, 
purer,  happier  spirit,  it  has  not  been  our  fortune  to  meet  with  in  print." — Bost.Cmur, 


THE     M  9  T  H  E  R  '  S     BOOK. 

New  Edition — Revised  and  Amended. 

The  value  and  usefulness  of  this  little  book  is  well  known, — it  having  passed 

through  eight  editions  iu  this  country  and  twelve  in  England. 

Contents  of  the  Chapters. — I.  On  the  means  of  developing  the  bodily  senses  in  earli 
est  infancy. — II.  Early  development  of  the  affections. — III.  Early  cultivation  of 
intellect. — IV.  Management  in  childhood. — V.  Amusements  and  employments. — 
VI.  Sunday.  Religion.  Views  of  Death.  Supernatural  appearances. — VII.  Ad 
vice  concerning  books.  List  of  good  books  for  various  ages. — VIII.  Politeness. — 
IX.  Beauty.  Dress.  Gentility. — X.  Management  during  the  teens. — XI.  Viewi 
of  Matrimony. — Concluding  observations. 


\ 


FLOWERS    FOR    CHILDREN. 

A  Series  of  volumes  in  Prose  and  Verse,  for  Children  of  various  ages. 

"  These  are  flowers  which  have  budded  and  blossomed  for  others  beside  children ; 
and  as  none  may  now  look  upon  the  lilies  of  the  field,  bowing  their  heads  in  pure 
effulgence,  or  in  gorgeous  luxuriance  of  show,  without  remembering  a  lesson  im 
pressed  upon  every  petal,  by  that  mild  look  of  the  Saviour's,  which  he  pave  them 
while  observing  that  human  hearts  might  be  instructed  by  them,  so  these  little  flow 
ers,  gathered  in  the  fields  of  Christian  wisdom,  in  the  company  of  the  spirit  of  tho 
Saviour,  suggest  lessons  to  instruct  the  minds  of  the  wisest,  and  open  the  springs  of 
pure  emotion  in  the  hearts  of  the  best." — Boston  Courier. 

"Verily,  we  are  delighted  ourselves,  and  congratulate  our  readers  who  are  blessed 
with  the  heritage  of  children,  upon  this  accession  to  our  juvenile  libraries,  and  iiope 
that  Mrs.  Child  will  not  be  chary  of  her  volumes.  These  "Flowers"  arc  so  sweet 
and  unfading  that  we  would  make  our  youngsters' libraries  redolent  of  their  perfum* 
end  beauty." — Commercial  Advertiser. 


PUBLISHED    BY    C.|£.    FRANCIS   AND   CO.  NEW   YORK. 

Jftrs.  Norton's 
THE   DREAM   AND  OTHER  POEMS: 

BY  THE  HON.  MRS.  NORTON. 

"This  lady  is  the  Byron  of  our  modern  poetesses.  She  has  very  much  of  that  in 
tense  personal  passion  by  which  Byron's  poetry  is  distinguished  from  the  largei 
grasp  and  deeper  communion  of  Wordsworth.  She  has  also  Byron's  beautiful 
intervals  of  tenderness,  his  strong  practical  thought,  and  his  forcible  expression. 
ft  is  not  an  artificial  imitation,  but  a  natural  parallel ;  and  we  may  add,  that  it  is 
this,  her  latest  production,  which  especially  induces,  and  seems  to  us  to  justify, 
our  criticism. 

"  The  Dream  is  a  very  beautiful  poem,  the  frame-work  of  which  is  simply  a 
lovely  mother  watching  over  a  lovely  daughter  asleep;  which  daughter  dreams, 
and  when  awaked  tells  her  dream  ;  which  dream  depicts  the  bliss  of  a  first  love 
nnd  an  early  union,  and  is  followed  by  the  mother's  admonitory  comment,  import 
ing  the  many  accidents  to  which  wedded  happiness  is  liable,  and  exhorting  to 
moderation  of  hope,  and  preparation  for  severe  duties.  It  is  in  this  latter  portion 
of  the  poeriS  that  the  passion  and  the  interest  assume  a  personal  hue  ;  and  passages 
occur  which  sound  like  javelins  hurled  by  an  Amazon." — Quarterly  Review. 

"  We  find  it  difficult  to  overstate  the  deep  interest  we  have  taken  in  this  volume, 
or  the  mingled  sentiments  of  admiration,  sympathy,  and  respect  with  which  we 
offer  to  the  writer  our  very  sincere,  though  very  imperfect  praise." — Examiner. 


THE  CHILD  OF  THE   ISLANDS  :    A  POEM. 

"There  can  be  no  question  that  the  performance  bears  throughout  the  stamp  of 
extraordinary  ability — the  sense  of  easy  power  very  rarely  deserts  us.  But  we 

pause  on  the  bursts  of  genius  ;  and  they  are  many The  exquisite  beauty 

of  the  verses  is  worthy  of  the  noble  womanly  feeling?  expressed  in  them 

We  wish  we  had  room  for  a  score  more  of  these  masterly  sketches — but  we  hope 
«ve  have  given  enough,  not  to  excite  attention,  for  that  such  gifts  employed  with 
such  energy  must  at  once  command,  even  were  the  name  on  the  title-page  a  new- 
one — but  enough  to  show  that  we  have  not  observed  with  indifference  this  mani 
festation  of  developed  skill — this  fairest  wreath  as  yet  won  in  the  service  of  the 
graver  Muses  for  the  name  of  SHERIDAN." — Quarterly  Review. 

"This  is  poetry,  true  poetry,  nnd  of  the  sort  we  unfeignedly  approve— the 
genuine  product  of  a  cultivated  mind,  a  rich  fancy,  and  a  warm,  well  regulated 
heart.  The  aim  is  noble,  the  tone  elevated,  the  train  of  thought  refined  and  chas 
tened,  though  singularly  fearless,  the  choice  of  images  and  illustrations,  judicious, 
and  the  language  often  beautiful,  and  always  clear. 

"  We  find  in  almost  every  page  of  this  elegant  volume,  som«  bold  burst,  graceful 
allusion,  or  delicate  touch  ; — some  trait  of  external  nature,  or  glimpse  into  the  re- 
eesses  of  the  heart — that  irresistibly  indicates  the  creating  or  transfiguring  power 
of  genius." — Edinburgh  Review. 

"  Under  cover  of  addressing  the  young  Prince  of  Wales,  Mrs.  Norton  has  written 
a  very  beautiful  poem  upon  the  great  domestic  question  of  the  day — the  condition 

of  the  people The  poem  is  divided  into  four  parts — Spring,  Summer, 

Autumn,  and  Winter.  No  connected  story  binds  them  together,  but  a  succession 
of  remarkably  pleasing  pictures  from  nature  are  presented  to  the  mind."— Time*. 


lu  preparation,  and  will  be  shortly  issued, 

BY  THE    SAME   AUTHOR: 

SORROWS  OF  ROSALIE,  and  other  Poems. 
THE  UNDYING  ONE,  and  other  Poems 


PUBLISHED   BY   C.    S.    FRANCIS  AXD   CO.,    NEW-YORK. 


TRAGEDIES,   SONNETS,   AND  VERSES: 

BY    T.     NOON     TALFOCTRD. 

Price  50  cents. 

"This  is  the  first  complete  American  edition  of  Talfburd's  Plays  and  Poems. 
It  will  meet  with  a  hearty  welcome  from  his  admirers,  and  their  name  is  '  Le 
gion.'  "  Com.  Adv. 

"  Talfourd  is  a  thoughtful  and  purely  classic  writer,  and  this  new  volume  i». 
indeed  an  addition  to  the  select  library."  Boston  Transcript. 

"Talfourd's  poems  are  too  well  known  to  require  praise.  A  chaste,  elevated, 
and  even  style — a  perfect  model  ef  grace  and  melody  ;  and  withal  pervaded  by  a 
generous  and  humane  philosophy."  New  Haven  Herald. 

"A  most  acceptable  addition  to  the  truly  choice  reading  of  the  day.  If  tli» 
volume  contained  only  '  lou '  alone,  it  woald  be  worth  twice  the  price  at  whicti  it 
is  sold,  to  any  reader  of  pure  and  classic  taste."  Knickerbocker. 

"This  remarkable  poem- (Ion>  has  justly  called  to  itself  more  attention  than  miy 
other  work  of  the  times.  It  has  given  more  pleasure  to- the  reader,  and  more  fam& 
to  the  writer,  than  all  the  red-hot  productions  of  the  intense  school  put  together."' 

If.  Amer.  Review. 

"  Ion  is  an  eminently  chaste  and  poetical  creation,  graceful  and  polished  in  its 
style,  pure  and  elevated  in  its  sentiments,  full  of  thoughts,  which,  without  being 
forced,  appear  original,  and  adorned  with  images  of  great  beauty." 

JCdin.  Review. 


MEMOIR   OF   FELICIA   HEMANS: 

BY    HER    SISTER. 

With  an  Essay  on  her  Genius ;  by  Mrs.  Sigourney. 
Price  3*7|  cents. 

"Who  that  has  read,  and  re-read  with  fresh  delight,  the  works  of  a  gifted  mind, 
(foes  not  long  to  become  familiar  with  the  private  life  of  the  writer?  Who,  of  alt 
the  poetesses  now  living,  could  pen  so  truthful  an  essay  on  the  genius  of  Mrs. 
Hemans,  as  Mrs.  Sigourney  ?"  Albany  Spectator. 

"These  memoirs,  from  a  sister's  hand,  with  their  authenticity,  combine  all 
those  attractive  graces  of  style  and  language  peculiar  to  the  tracings  of  a  female 
pen."  Eve.  Journal. 

"A  well- written  biography,  prefaced  by  a  beautiful  Eitay  on  the  genius  of  Mr*. 
Hemans,  from  the  pen  of  Mrs.  Sigourney."  Com.  Adv. 


LALLA     ROOKH : 

AN  ORIENTAL  ROMANCE.     By  THOMAI  MOORE. 

A  beautiful  Edition,  on  fine  paper  and  large  type.    Price  37J  cents. 

This  exquisite  poem  is  so  well  known,  and  its  reputation  so  fully  established, 
that  notices  of  it  would  be  superfluous.  It  is  sufficient  to  say,  in  the  word*  of 
Professor  Wilson,  that,  "This  poem,  from  the  hand  of  beyond  all  comparison,  th» 
most  ingenious,  brilliant,  and  fanciful  poel  of  the  present  age,  \t  the  most  beauti 
ful  and  characteristic  ol'his  composition*. " 


PUBLISHED  BY  C.  S.  FRANCIS  AND  CO.,  NEW- YORK. 


ol  ©rbille  JPetoes« 


DISCOURSES    AND     REVIEWS. 

Upon  Questions  in  Controversial  Theology  and  Practical  Reli 
gion.  By  ORVILLE  DEWEY,  D.D.,  Pastor  of  the  Church  of 
the  Messiah,  in  New-York. 

CONTENTS: 
THE  UNITARIAN  BELIEF  :— 

On  the  Nature  of  Religious  Belief ;  with  Inferences  concerning 
Doubt,  Decision,  Confidence,  and  the  Trial  of  Faith. 

CURSORY  OBSERVATIONS  ON  THE  QUESTIONS  AT  ISSUE  BETWEEN 

ORTHODOX  AND  LIBERAL  CHRISTIANS. 

I.  On  the  Trinity.  II.  On  the  Atonement.  III.  On  the  Five 
Points  of  Calvinism.  IV.  On  Future  Punishment.  V.  Con 
clusion  ;  the  modes  of  attack  upon  Liberal  Christianity,  the 
same  that  were  used  against  the  Doctrine  of  the  Apostles  and 
Reformers. 

THE  ANALOGY  OF  RELIGION  WITH  OTHER  SUBJECTS  CONSIDERED. 
DISCOURSES  AND  REVIEWS  :— 

I.  The  Analogy  of  Religion.  II.  On  Conversion.  III.  On  the 
method  of  obtaining  and  exhibiting  Religious  and  Virtuous 
affections.  IV.  Causes  of  indifference  and  aversion  to  Reli 
gion. 

On  the  original  use  of  the  Epistles  of  the  New  Testament, 
compared  with  their  use  and  application  at  the  present  day. 

On  Miracles. 

The  Scriptures  considered  as  the  Record  of  a  Revelation. 

On  the  Nature  and  Extent  of  Inspiration. 

On  Faith,  and  Justification  by  Faith. 

That  Errors  in  Theology  have  sprung  from  false  principles 
of  Reasoning. 

On  the  Calvinistic  Views  of  Moral  Philosophy. 

It  is  the  highest  pleasure  to  meet  touched  and  moved  by  him  aa  by  uc 

with  a  volume  so  replete  with  earnest  other  preacher  now  living  to  whom  it 

thought,  tempered   with    the    kindest  has  been  our   privilege  to  listen.    We 

charity.     Besides  the  intellectual  plea-  need  not  commend   this  volume  j   and 

sure  of  studying  the  works  of  an  essay-  yet,   as   we   have  been  reading  it,  we 

ist  so  accomplished  and  eloquent  as  Dr.  could  not  help  wishing,  that  its  spirit, 

Dewey,  the  reader  enjoys  the  greater  at   least,    of   reverence    and   charity, 

satisfaction  of  considering  the  highest  might   find  a  place    in    every  heart; 

religious  principles  and  problems  with  that  those,  who  are  not  convinced  by 

a  writer  who  looks  at  them  with  the  sim-  its  reasoning,  might  yet  be  profited  by 

plicity  and  dignity  of  study  which  they  its  teachings,  aud  go   from  its   pages 

deserve. — Boston  Daily  Advertiser.  better,  and,    therefore,    wiser   men. — 

The  profound  learning,  cultivated  Christian  Register. 
taste,  and  eminent  ability  of  Dr.  Dewey,  We  rejoice  whenever  a  competent 
give  an  interest  to  this  work  that  will  writer  feels  moved  again  and  again  to 
secure  a  large  class  of  readers  without  discuss  subjects  involving  the  best  in- 
the  circle  of  his  own  religious  denomi-  terests  of  humanity.  Such  we  con- 
nation. — Journal  of  Commerce.  ceive  to  be  the  topics  in  the  present 

There  is  no  living  writer  to  whom  we  volume,  and  which  Dr.  Dewey  has  in- 

feel  ourselves  under  greater  obligations  vested  ***  freah  beauty  and  interest. 

than    to   Dr.   Dewey.    We  have  been  —Christian  World. 


